


paper.planes

by aeroport_art



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - British, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angsty Schmoop, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-14
Updated: 2008-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:05:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeroport_art/pseuds/aeroport_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jared is a wee British undergrad, and Jensen, American postgrad extraordinnaire, seduces him with how great his ass looks in a pair of jeans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to nativestar and lavendervamp for brit-picking. Yay, I'm so happy I finally finished this baby!

“C’mon, _please_? It’s on your way to the library.”

“I don’t know which library _you’re_ talking about,” Jared complains. The crumbling look Damon sends him, however, is so pathetic that Jared has no choice but to relent. He sighs. “Fine. Hand it over, already, before you start blubbering on your homework.”

“Knew I could count on you, Jay,” his friend brightly replies as he hands over his assignment.

“I’ll take payment in booze. Now sod off before she leaves without you.” Jared plucks the white folder out of his friend’s hands and waves him off with it, smile playing on his lips as he watches Damon go. 

Jared glances down at his watch, groaning inwardly. _Gonna be late for class_. Hurrying across campus, Jared cuts through the Student Union, dodging the kids streaming in and out, when he hears his name called out over the outdoor din.

“Jared!” 

He turns around, breaking out into a toothy grin when he catches sight of his best friend, Sandy; tiny and cute as a button, with long swaying hair and a smile bright enough to wage war against Jared’s own, the two have been family friends since they were in nappies. 

Jared’s pleased to see her but he calls out, “Get a gallop on, Sandy!” as he maintains his pace. She jogs towards Jared and falls in step with him, albeit with difficulty.

“Where you off to?”

“Been conned into running errands for Damon. I’m just stopping by Kern to drop this off for him.”

“Again?” Sandy asks, jogging two steps for every one of Jared’s long strides.

Jared laughs. “Yeah, again.”

“Sucker,” she smirks. Before Jared can deliver a rebuttal, Sandy changes the subject— “So anyway, is anything going on for the weekend? I was thinking Sols Arms.”

“I like the way your mind works,” Jared says, grinning large. “Not tomorrow though, I’ve got that thing—you know, the debate meeting.”

“Yeah, I remember. Friday then?” Sandy jogs a few steps ahead again, letting Jared’s stride engulf her own as he makes an assenting noise. After a couple more minutes she finally sighs, “It’s like pacing a giraffe, I can’t keep up with you.” Sandy slows down—yells after him, “I’ll call you about Friday!”

“Friday!” Jared throws back, even as he glances down at his watch, which informs him that he’s late for class. Again. Eurgh, he hopes the professor will be in a forgiving mood that day. 

Jared upgrades his walk to more of a shuffling jog, cursing the sprawling size of Braxton University.

\-----

Situated on the outskirts of London, Braxton University was Jared’s top choice during the application process due to its highly competitive law program and proximity to the city; thus he entered the Law department sans the deliberation that plagued his school mates. Now taking only law classes, Jared finds himself largely restrained to Trotter Hall. Unfortunately in this case, this means that his classes are clear across campus from Damon’s. But still, a favor’s a favor.

 _Ah, shortcut_ , he thinks as he spies Vitton, home to all the administrative offices and adjunct of the Architecture department. It stands in front of Kern, nearly flush against it, and with any luck Jared can go through instead of circumventing the long, narrow building.

Jared pushes the tall glass doors of Vitton open and heads in the general direction of Kern, hoping for a direct route to the other building.

 _No, no, no, not this way,_ he groans as the hallway quickly bends away from his destination. _Where the bloody hell is the exit?_

Jared plows his way past classroom after classroom, finding himself deeply entrenched in the hallways that are decorated with students’ work; AutoCAD printouts and miniature models glorify the architecture wing but all Jared wants to see is a bright, beautiful way out.

He’s staring up at the ceiling, completely oblivious to what’s in front of him as he searches for a green-lit exit sign, when Jared collides into something solid and pointy.

“Oof,” he grunts as the corners from three stacked textbooks jam into his stomach. The heavy books scatter to the ground in protest, empty _whumps_ echoing down vacant halls. “Sorry,” Jared automatically says, bending down to help pick them up.

“What were you looking at?”

The voice that rings out—lazy and playful—it stops Jared in his tracks, his hand stilling on a thick tome that reads _Neo-Classicism and its Many Incarnations_. Jared looks up.

The man in front of him is crouched down as well, gathering the thinner two of the three books and meeting Jared’s surprised gaze.

“…you’re American?” Jared asks, the question out of his mouth before he has a chance to rein it in.

“Born and raised,” the man replies, quirking a polite smile that reeks of over-use. He sits back on his haunches.

“Well yeah, you’ve got that um…” Jared trails off, wondering how to describe that slow, easy accent, almost exaggerated in its thick drawl, in a way that won’t make him sound completely dim or redundant. Only, he soon realizes that there is none so Jared shuts his mouth and stares back.

The other man blinks, smile still playing on his lips as he looks expectantly at Jared.

“Oh!” Flustered, Jared finally picks up the textbook he has his hand on and thrusts it at the other man. “Sorry.”

“No problem,” the man says. He cradles the books against a black, T-shirt-clad chest and rises, eyes still amusedly trained on Jared.

When he finally makes to step aside, Jared blurts, “Wait.”

 _Wait, what?_ he asks himself in a mild panic. “Er.” The other man lifts an eyebrow, looking more comfortable in own his skin than anybody has the right to be. Especially when Jared is currently feeling a confusing mash-up of rushed, embarrassed, and intrigued.

The man slowly blinks again, and Jared skeptically wonders if those lashes are entirely natural. When full lips open to speak, Jared hastily interrupts, “Er, how do I get to Kern from here?”

Jared sees a flash of very straight teeth before he hears, “You passed the door a few classrooms back. It kind of blends in with the wall, but it’ll be on your left.”

“Right-o, thanks,” Jared blurts. He mentally slaps himself, thinking, _Right-o? What am I, Hugh Grant?_

“Don’t go running into anymore strangers, okay? They’re not all as nice as me,” the man teases and Jared wants to stop fidgeting, but he can’t. Instead he pulls his lips into a passable smile (he hopes, though he’s feeling vaguely sickly) and turns around, going back the way he came.

Unfortunately, the other man is going the same way and walks beside him, languid swagger in dark denims, and Jared spends an excruciating minute debating whether or not it would be rude to speed-walk (run) away before he finally spies the painted side door and pushes into it, hurtling out into the cool air.

Jared hears a small chuckle before the heavy door slams shut. He takes a moment to stare at the innocuous door, curses Damon so harshly he blushes himself, then checks his watch again.

 _Fuck._ Ten minutes late and he hasn’t even dropped off the damned folder yet. _Damon, it’s gonna be your shout down the boozer all night,_ he swears before dashing into Kern and maneuvering through more familiar territory.

Only after he’s slipped Damon’s assignment under the office door, power-walked through Kern and past Vitton with a generous, wide berth, does he give himself a moment to let the niggling thing at the back of his mind bubble to the surface.

 _Really, really green eyes_ , Jared thinks, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he outstrips any passerby with his hurried gait and long legs. He thinks about the color and clarity of them, thinks about the man’s languid accent and lopsided smirk, and the image spins like a reel through his mind until he’s reached his criminology lecture and is weakly shrugging at his professor’s annoyed gaze as he slinks in through the back.

There aren’t any empty seats in the last five or so rows so Jared awkwardly smushes past shifting legs to get to one near the front. He hears the girl behind him sigh with displeasure and so he slumps down, trying not to block the view of the presentation.

“As I was saying,” the professor pointedly continues. But although Jared eventually has his notebook out, pen diligently copying down the notes off the slides, his finds himself unable to pay proper attention. Instead he keeps half an ear out for the lecture, and the rest of his focus on sketching eyes and girly-looking lips in the margins of his notes.

\-----

 

He thinks that by the weekend, he’ll have long forgotten that awkward encounter in the architecture block. But he hasn’t.

In fact, Jared is so far removed from forgetting about it that he finds himself doing a double-take at every dark-haired crew cut, every echo of an American accent, and it gets to the point that even his friends have become subjected to his recent… preoccupation.

“What are you on about, Jared?”

“You know, like… do you ever just hang out at Vitton?”

Damon looks at Jared like he’s two cards short of a deck, then takes another bite out of his sandwich. “No,” he mumbles between lettuce and ham.

“Ever clocked a guy, an American? Kinda yay-high—“ he waves his hand over his own shoulder— “Green eyes. Tight shirt and jeans, maybe.”

“For the love of— look mate, I haven’t seen the guy. So stop asking and let me finish my lunch.”

“Alright, don’t pitch a hissy,” Jared huffs. He pokes at his curry with a plastic spork, but is less interested in the brown goop than in finding somebody who will stop patronizing him.

Sandy arrives at the boys’ table, throwing down her backpack on the bench and slumping in.

“I hate fucking _Mythology in Ancient Mycenaean Culture_ ,” she says in a high falsetto that is probably supposed mimic her professor. “Worst module. Ever.” She folds her arms and buries her face in them, dark hair streaming over hunched shoulders.

Jared perks up. “Sandy, hey Sandy.”

“What,” comes the muffled reply.

“Oh god, not this again,” Damon groans, warily eyeing his friend who leans forward and narrowly misses planting his elbow in the plate of curry.

Jared ignores him and proceeds to unleash a barrage of questions at Sandy, who looks up only after he offers food as bribery.

“C’mon Sandy, chin up, eat this. So you _have_ seen him around?”

She unfolds her arms and agreeably takes the largely uneaten meal, digging in. “Mmm… I love it when they use real ginger.” Jared makes pleading eyes. “Okay, okay. Yeah, I think I’ve seen him a couple times before. Kind of hard to miss the bloke, looking like that—“ she punctuates with a coy lick of her spork. “I think it was at the library. Yeah, over at Westborough, I remember him with books. The ones he had looked awfully dull.”

Something akin to giddiness, only manlier, rushes through Jared like a volt. “ _I_ study at Westborough sometimes,” he gushes. 

Sandy rolls her eyes. “Jared, love. It’s the largest library on campus. Hardly a sign of cosmic intervention, sorry.”

“No worries,” Jared replies, oblivious to the sarcasm. He suddenly feels the void in his stomach like a punch to the gut, remembering that he hadn’t eaten since the night before. He tugs the Styrofoam plate back.

“Hey—“

“I’m _famished_ ,” Jared says, reaching for the plastic utensil that Sandy twists away from his grabby hands. She snaps up one more bite before relinquishing it.

“Indian giver,” she pouts.

“Oh, give it a rest. You ate half of it already,” Jared says through a mouthful of rice as Sandy scrunches her face up in distaste. Damon watches the exchange with vague disinterest, utterly accustomed and immune to their childish banter.

“So,” Damon says as he brushes sandwich crumbs off his shirt. “What’s the big deal, anyway? Does the guy owe you money or something?”

Jared chews thoughtfully, taking a moment to let the words sink in. _Good question_ , he eventually realizes with a little pang of alarm. “It’s not like that,” he eventually says. His friends watch him chew through three more spoonfuls before he elaborates, “He’s ah, he’s got something of mine. When we bumped into each other, I think he accidentally took my notebook. I have an exam on Wednesday, so I’ve got to find him.” Jared swallows the last of his lunch and leans back, tossing the empty plate and spork into a nearby bin.

“I see,” Sandy muses, though Jared can tell she doesn’t quite believe him. Twenty years of close friendship will hone the radar, and Sandy is no exception to the rule. Jared plasters on his best facsimile of a reassuring smile, but this only makes her neatly shaped eyebrow raise. He can almost hear her saying _oh, c’mon_ in his head.

“Alright ladies, I’ve got to go,” Jared says with discomfort as Sandy’s pinning gaze doesn’t let up. Damon mumbles something that sounds like _not the one with the **girly hair** , here_ as Jared stands up and hoists his bag onto his shoulder. “Drinks later, yeah?”

They quickly confirm a time to meet and then Jared is off, scuffed Converses briskly carrying him towards Westborough Library.

It’s just studying, that’s all. Jared has a bit of paperwork to do before his next class anyway, so why not in a suitable environment? Green Eyes, as he’s dubbed him, may or may not be there but that is entirely beside the point. Entirely, entirely.

\-----

 

Only, two weeks later when Jared finally meets Green Eyes again, he kind of can’t bring himself to actually make eye contact, much less attempt coherent conversation. Which would maybe help in solving that all-consuming question of why the hell he even cares so much, but seeing as how he can barely manage to hold it together while the guy just stands there, hip casual against Jared’s table, Jared reckons that the answer will just have to wait.

It figures that after two weeks of unsuccessful reconnaissance, two weeks of wanting to at least know the guy’s _name_ , that the first day Jared actually goes to the library to get some work done is the day he shows up. _Of course_.

“Was it all it was cracked up to be?”

“M’sorry?” Jared guiltily lifts his head from behind his textbook. Damned political science courses and their little paperbacks. No proper coverage at all.

“Kern. That’s where you were going, right?”

“Oh right, yeah. It was, er, just fine. Thanks,” Jared frowns as he listens to himself.

Green Eyes smiles, too amused for Jared’s comfort, and says, “It’s just that you looked a little lost. Thought I’d follow up on you.” He pushes himself off Jared’s table with his hip in one smooth undulation, arms still crossed, and smiles down at Jared.

 _Probably practiced that at home_ , Jared thinks as he feels his ears warm. _What a poser_.

“Well okay, I’ll leave you alone with—“ the man peers down and reads, “ _The Powers of War and Peace_. See you around, kid.” He nods his head goodbye as Jared blinks in bewilderment, then walks past him to venture further into the library.

Considering how thoroughly and often Jared had envisioned their re-acquaintance, when it actually happens he can’t help but wonder if he’d imagined it (although this definitely would’ve registered as one of the more undesirable scenarios). Belatedly, Jared jerks around to look over his shoulder and spies the retreating back of a worn, olive green T-shirt that dips between shoulder blades and skims below the waistband of distressed jeans. Unfortunately, it would appear that Jared really had just made a right prat of himself.

 _Bloody hell_. Jared turns back around, disengages his fingernails from the pages of his book, and sets it facedown. Only hesitating for a moment, Jared soon eschews whatever schoolwork needs to be done in favor of reclaiming the honor of owning any balls, and gathers his belongings.

He vaguely wonders what he’s doing as he follows along the narrow aisle that the American turned down. But Jared quickly brushes all misgivings aside, because he really wants to re-write his undoubtedly lackluster first impression.

It takes a minute or two, but Jared eventually finds him by a large, clear-paned window. Green Eyes has a PowerBook set up and rimless glasses perched on his straight nose. Jared swallows.

“Hey uh—” Jared starts, as the guy looks up. “I was just, um, thinking about how, well, I don’t know your name, um, or anything,” Jared says smoothly. He kind of wants to cry by this point, but takes a steadying breath anyway and simply states, “I’m Jared.”

Small grin in place, the man replies, “Jensen.” He takes his right hand off the keyboard and holds it out. 

_Firm grip, but not too hard_ , Jared instructs himself as he takes it, letting the heat of Jensen’s palm pool into his own. He tries not to feel bereft when the handshake ends.

“I’ve got lecture now,” Jared says, proud when his voice holds its own. Jensen leans back in his chair and his smile dims ever-so-slightly, and Jared wants to cheer when he sees the disappointment etched on Jensen’s face. Feeling slightly more courageous, he says, “But I’m always about.” _At least I will be_. “Alright, that’s all. Cheers.”

“Bye, Jared,” Jensen says, husky voice savoring his name and Jared feels something like _thrill_ course through him. 

Later on that night, amidst a group of four or five of their friends, Damon gets the first round of drinks for everybody. By Jared’s fourth stout, he’s telling everybody and everything that will listen about _Jensen_ , American-accented _Jensen_ and how he kind of looks he works the night shift, _but he’s smart because he has glasses and a laptop_ and by the seventh drink, everybody at Sols Arms that night knows that Jared is sporting the largest man-crush ever known to Braxton University.

Not that anyone perceives it as threatening; no, everybody pretty much assumes that Jared Padalecki, son of television mogul Gerald Padalecki, is dating heiress Sandra McCoy. The two of them never really bothered to correct the general misconception so while everybody indulges Jared’s infatuation with amusement, only Sandy gets the honor of realizing the truth.

The truth being, her best friend is head over heels for a man named Jensen, and this worries her. This worries her a lot.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing is, Sandy loves Jared. And all right, she knows, Jared loves Sandy. But Jared doesn’t _love_ Sandy. And this wouldn’t really be a problem, hasn’t been for the past five odd years since she’s known her own feelings for certain, because she (and everybody else) had always sort of assumed they would end up together anyway.

Their friends believe it. Their parents certainly believe it, if the constant joking-but-not-really about marriage, and _grandchildren_ , are anything to go by. Even the media has gone so far as to declare the _It_ Kids (numbers 21 and 14 on OK’s list, with Sandy ranked higher much to Jared’s chagrin) as rumored to be betrothed. So if everybody in the whole of blighty believes it, well. There’s such thing as a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Which is why Sandy wasn’t worried about Jared’s restraint with her, his steadfast adherence to the land of Platonic. No, she wasn’t worried… at least, not until now.

Or rather, not until Green-Eyes-hooker-boy-with-a-“sexy rough accent”—also known, more simply, as Jensen.

Having always been the requisite asexual of the group, Jared was never one to notice attractive people, nor to whine about celibacy. Which is what makes this recent bout all the more disturbing. No one, _no one_ has ever teased such depths of insecurity out of the affable, untouchable Jared Padalecki, and it is fucking _disturbing_ to witness Jared’s overdue flight into adolescence.

Damn it, it’s supposed to be _her_ to bring it out of him, not some poxy Yank with dick-sucking lips (she _has_ seen the guy, after all). It’s supposed to be _Jared and Sandy_ forever. And while she isn’t about to go turncoat and plot against her best friend, she just… well.

She just wishes Jared would look at _her_ like that.

\-----

 

“Oh Sandy, you should’ve _seen_ it, he was absolutely cracking,” Jared says, one hand around Sandy’s waist and the other gesturing madly.

“Just shut up and smile Jared, they’ll get you in all sorts of weird expressions if you keep talking,” she hisses through her plastered smile.

“Oh, right,” he says, stopping mid-flail and letting his hand drop. He leans down and puts his chin on Sandy’s chestnut hair, which glints off the flashing bulbs and into his eyes.

Finally the paparazzi move on to the next attendees who are pulling up in various modes of transport, leaving Jared and Sandy to shuffle their way into the hotel.

“God, every time,” he grumbles, blinking dazedly.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Sandy says, shaking her own vision out a bit before twining a hand through Jared’s proffered arm.

“That’s just because it gives you a chance to show off how fit you are,” Jared smirks, tugging on the back cowl on her shimmering dress. Sandy squeaks as she readjusts the low V-shaped neckline.

“Watch it, double-stick tape here!”

“Right, right,” Jared laughs, palm up in deference. Sandy verifies her modesty one more time and once she’s deemed herself presentable, the two of them traverse the lobby and push through ceiling-high, rococo-decked doors into the Carnelian Room.

Immediately Jared’s senses are assaulted by the cloying scent of strong perfumes in an array of florals and fruits, the heady aroma of pungent foods as servers nimbly dash around the guests with stacked platters, and the unmistakable scent of alcohol which clings to the red-faced, portly male who cuts past Jared and Sandy with a muttered “pardon.”

Eyes widened, Jared turns to Sandy and confirms, “That was Oliver’s Dad, right?” 

She attempts to stifle a snort, recovers quickly and replies, “Not even dinner yet and the man’s pissed!”

Jared chuckles and moves forward, dragging Sandy along through the thickening party.

When they eventually come across the birthday girl, Martha Hammet (“ _It_ Kid number twelve, Sandy. She _beat you_.” “Sod off, 21.”), they stop to coo their felicitations and compliment her spangly, off-shoulder dress.

“Oh that’s _gorgeous_ , Martha, is that Elie Saab?”

“Actually no,” she says, flipping her gently curled locks. “It’s Dior. But you’d think so, wouldn’t you? He had quite the monopoly on gold this season.”

Jared’s keeping his gaze steady, but in his mind his eyes are rolled skyward. He impatiently shifts from foot to foot as the girls pick apart each other’s outfits, clutches to wedges, until an eternity later Sandy says, “We’ll let you be a good host, now. Danny Plover’s looking a little bit lovesick for you.”

Martha’s eyes settle on a boy a few tables away, who clutches a cocktail and is determinedly not looking at her. She muffles a resigned sigh. “You’re right, I was absolutely awful to him the other night. Anyway I think we’ve tortured poor Jared enough, I’ll let him whisk you away,” she says, winking at Jared whose attention snaps back into the conversation.

“Did she just insult me?” Jared asks as Martha disappears behind a gaggle of bystanders. 

Sandy laughs, “No, silly boy. Come on, let’s go find our parents.”

The two of them steer through the large room, stopping for quick chats with friends and sampling of hors d’oeuvres, until they make their way to the round tables where most of the adults are seated. They find the Padaleckis and McCoys easily and maneuver between chairs decorated with expensive, hanging coats and purses until they reach their table.

“Mum, Dad! Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Padalecki,” Sandy says, leaning forward and exchanging kisses with the elegantly-dressed adults. Jared steps forward and greets them accordingly, and soon everybody is seated and sipping their drinks, chatting about uni and catching up on the latest news. Before long, a colleague of Mr. McCoy’s pops by and the adults get embroiled in a conversation about the political state of the Middle East, slowly easing Jared and Sandy out of the spotlight.

Jared leans in. “I’ll race you through four drinks.”

Sandy laughs, “Oh come off it, you said you weren’t getting pissed tonight. Something about an early morning tomorrow?”

Jared shrugs. Sandy gives an exaggerated sigh, but grabs his hand and aims for the bar anyway. “Mum, Dad, we’re off to get drinks. Want anything?”

“We’re alright dear,” Mrs. McCoy says with a wave of her hand.

When they reach the bar, Jared gets a John Smith’s for himself and orders Sandy her favorite drink (lemon drop, dash of Triple Sec). They clink glasses and Jared immediately knocks half of his lager back, Sandy watching the amber liquid drain while she sips her martini.

He wipes the foam off his mouth with the back of his hand. “So as I was saying an hour ago,” Jared picks up, and Sandy sucks a mouthful of her drink. “I saw him again.”

“Yeah, we got to that part,” she says, a gentle current of dismay running through her. “Frisbee on the lawn?”

“Right. Well as I walk by, I’m watching the frisbee in the air, and the bloody thing almost hits me—“ Jared slants his eyes at Sandy when she laughs— “and Jensen jumps and catches it, like a bloody dog or something, he jumps like _ten feet_ I swear, his abs are like, _in my face_ —” he punctuates this with a splayed hand over his own face.

Sandy is smiling and stirring the red straw in her drink when Jared trails off, suddenly adopting a slightly guilty expression.

“What?” she asks.

“Er, nothing.” Jared averts his gaze.

“Jared, it’s little early to be getting red in the face,” Sandy starts, before realizing that _oh_. Jared’s _blushing_.

“I am not,” he says embarrassedly, draining his beer and beckoning the bartender for another. “It’s just like a sauna in here.”

“Oh, Jay,” Sandy grins evilly. “Just what is going on through that dirty little mind of yours?”

“Nothing! And don’t call me that,” Jared grimaces as Sandy pulls out the big guns, resorting to childhood nicknames. “Makes me sound like a bent.”

“Uh-huh. And your infatuation with Jensen doesn’t?”

“What? That’s different,” Jared says defensively. “It’s just exciting you know, a new friend. It’s like when you were first getting on with Mandy. Everything was Mandy this, Mandy that.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to _shag_ Mandy,” she teases lightly.

“Sandy!” Jared looks so affronted that she can only laugh at his ridiculous expression. “I don’t want to shag Jensen.” He pauses at her pointed silence. “I don’t.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Come off it Sandy, you know you’re the only one for me,” Jared says, pulling her in at the waist and kissing her on the forehead. Sandy’s residual chuckle fades into a lingering, polite smile.

“Don’t say that Jay, you’ll break girls’ hearts.”

Jared relaxes as he settles back into his comfort zone, fingers playing with the condensation on his glass. “Don’t be ridiculous. Now, screw early-morning, weekend debate meetings, I say. _Let’s get crunked tonight_ ,” Jared growls, affecting an awful, bloated American accent which, reluctant as she is, drags Sandy into an inescapable giggle. Jared flags the bartender down again and orders them another round of drinks.

\-----

 

It’s Tuesday. Jared _detests_ Tuesdays. Every week the unfortunate, eleven-hour uni days have him itching to pitch himself over the top floor of Trotter Hall.

Jared straightens up in his squeaky seat, cricks his neck, and then settles his chin on a stack of textbooks. Good God, has it only been four minutes since he last checked the clock?

Finally, _finally_ , the professor shuts off his overhead presentation and flips the lights on. A chorus of shuffling and zippers, popping knees and yawns spill through the air and Jared joins in, shaking his numb arm in attempts of imbuing any feeling back into it.

Sandwiched between four hours of lecture and a debate society meeting is a one-hour break that Jared normally uses to grab a bite to eat, though as of late his free hours/minutes/seconds are spent visiting very particular locations.

Jared is carried downstream out of Trotter Hall with a throng of students and once he hits the cool, moist air outside, he immediately veers towards Westborough.

 _I really ought to do some research before the meeting_ , Jared thinks, envisioning strong biceps stretched beneath faded cotton. He catches himself mid-daydream and feels a twinge of embarrassment. _Alright, and maybe Jensen will be there too_.

He hasn’t seen Jensen since last Thursday, not since striding over the wide lawn in front of Vitton (there was an errand to run at Admin, honest) and stepping into the trajectory of a frisbee. Jared still remembers Jensen catching the plastic disc just millimeters from his face, heat radiating from his outstretched body. Underneath fresh sweat, Jensen smelled like soap, and grass.

So yeah, it’s been a long weekend and he just wants to get cracking with this maybe-friendship; that is, if Jensen even sees him as more than a familiar face or just a “kid.” Jared is not a _kid_ , goddamnit. Kids are not 6’4” with hair skimming the tops of smaller doorframes, nor do they study very serious things like law and political science. Jared frowns and kicks a rock.

He enters the giant double-doors of Westborough Library and quickly makes his way up to the fifth floor. When Jared steps off the lift he heads straight for the desks that are submerged in natural light, extending like a string of rafts on water. He plunks his bag down on the desk where Jensen sat two weeks ago and settles himself in with his texts, notebook, and pen out. He puts his pen in his mouth and looks out the window.

It’s a dreary day and everything’s washed in muted colors; burgundy and greys, russet and shadows. He sees students roaming the school like crawling dots and from this vantage point he feels a disconnect form, a yawning canyon between him and them. In the relatively vacant floor of the library, there’s the hum of catalogue computers and the faraway shuffles of other people, but otherwise it’s just Jared and a view through the glass.

Some days Jared thinks all there _is_ is this; the view through the glass.

Sandy calls it his time of the month, though in actuality it only happens about once a year or so. Jared doesn’t know how or why, but sometimes the life he leads feels a little strange, a little off like a blazer that’s too tight at the shoulders. Some days his shoes don’t fit him and Jared wonders if he’ll ever grow into them, if he’ll ever become what people seem to think he already is.

Some days Jared feels like this, but contemplative weather notwithstanding, this is not, _will not_ become one of those days. He stretches his arms, flips open to the reading assignment of his criminology text and starts to take notes.

Halfway through “Positivist School of Thought,” a sharp _ding_ causes Jared to look up. His eyes dart to the elevators, which are concealed behind about six rows of reference materials and a white plaster wall, but the sound is unmistakable.

The loud, clunky roll of sliding metal reaches Jared’s ears, followed by sharp, echoing footsteps. Jared chews on the cap of his ballpoint pen.

Seclusion is great and all, but Jared hears the footsteps grow louder and he kind of wishes for a clear view of the floor instead of just a stupid window and stacks of musty books.

The footsteps turn down the aisle just diagonal from Jared, its bearer still infuriatingly invisible, and he watches the end cap anxiously to see if...

“Hi,” Jared says, pulling the mangled pen cap out of his mouth and furtively wiping it on his sleeve. “Jensen.”

“Hey, kiddo. This spot taken?” Jensen uncurls a smile, slow and easy, with his hand on the chair opposite Jared.

“Go ahead,” Jared says, shoving his belongings over. After a pause, “And don’t call me kiddo, we’re the same age.”

“I’m here for the graduate program, which means that you’re definitely younger than me. Despite your size,” Jensen says cheekily, falling into his chair and unzipping his laptop case.

“Oh, come off it, you can’t be _that_ much older than me. What are you, twenty-two? Twenty-three?”

Jensen remains quiet, ever-present smile hovering over his lips, and replies, “Fine, so not ‘kiddo.’ What should I call you then?”

Jared shifts in his seat. “Everybody calls me Jared.”

“How about this, we compromise,” Jensen says, powering his laptop on and flipping the monitor up. “Jay.”

Jared is about to utter an indignant retort; he’s always detested that silly nickname and his friends only use it to piss him off. But.

“Jay,” Jensen says again, trying the name out. He says it seriously, effortlessly, with no trace of the usual glee that hides behind the nickname. For once in his life Jared likes the way the name sounds, likes the syllable on Jensen’s tongue. When Jared just nibbles at his pen and stares at him, Jensen quirks a slightly self-conscious smile and leans back. He teeters the wooden chair on two legs and asks, “Better than kiddo?”

Jared taps his pen against his chin—desperately wants to gnaw on the end of it, but physically restrains himself (he’s learned his lesson; no way in hell Jared is going to spend the next forty-five minutes with Jensen, blue ink splotch on his face and teeth). He finally says, “Yeah, alright.”

Jensen’s stiff smile grows into one that reaches his eyes (hazel in this light, Jared thinks) before tipping his chair back down with a smart _clack_. He fishes through his laptop case, pulls out a satin drawstring bag and pulls his glasses out of it. “I’d love to chat Jared, but I really have to get this thing done,” he says, unfolding and slipping on the same glasses Jared saw him wearing before. Jensen looks up and Jared wonders if his eyelashes ever get in the way of the lens.

“Oh,” Jared says. “That’s fine. I have work as well.” Jared picks his pen back up and goes back to reading.

After the thirtieth reading of the same sentence, Jared realizes just how edgy and suffocated he feels. He glances up at the other man and spies Jensen’s hand curled over an Apple mouse, finger idly rubbing the little gray scroll ball which, for the record, Jared has always found disturbingly sexual. Jared feels his face warm and he abruptly pushes his chair back, standing up.

“I’ve got to go look something up. Watch my stuff?”

“’Course,” Jensen says. Jared tells himself he isn’t trying to sneak a peek at Jensen’s monitor, but he catches a glimpse of an unfamiliar program as he heads toward the bookshelves.

Once he’s appropriately far away and snug between two narrow aisles of multilingual reference books, Jared leans forward and rests his forehead on a dictionary.

 _Jesus Christ. What the sodding hell is_ wrong _with me?_ Jared thunks his head against the spine of the dictionary. _He’s just a guy. A very cool, older, well-dressed guy, but just_ … Jared takes a deep breath and stops to collects himself. After a minute or two, he straightens his back and quickly skims the shelves, grabbing the cleanest-looking book.

When he gets back to the table Jensen’s still working on whatever it is he’s working on. Curiosity getting the better of him, Jared asks, “So what do you read, anyway?”

“What?” Jensen cranes his neck to look at Jared, who’s standing beside him.

“I mean, what do you study,” Jared elaborates, gesturing at the unfamiliar application that fills the screen of Jensen’s PowerBook.

“Oh. Architecture,” Jensen replies. “Emphasis on engineering, but I’m designing a building for this project.”

“I see,” Jared says uncertainly. He blinks down at the screen, seeing bulbous shapes and thousands of shortcut icons. “Looks complicated.”

“C’mere,” Jensen says and turns the laptop towards Jared. Jared cautiously leans over but still can’t see anything so he drops to his knees and props his arms on the tabletop.

“This is the program I’m using, Maya. It’s for 3D animations, and I’m making a short video of the building I designed. When it’s done it’s going to be like a tour, like you’re walking through the place,” Jensen explains as he removes his glasses and wipes the lens with the hem of his cotton shirt. Jared nods, trying not to peek at the strip of exposed belly that taunts him, inches away from his face.

“Do you have pictures of the building you designed?” Jared quickly asks.

“Sure,” Jensen breaks into a grin as he minimizes the program and pulls up various folders, stock-piled with images and documents.

They spend the rest of Jared’s free time talking about studies but when Jared reluctantly leaves Westborough an hour later, all he can think about is Jensen’s arm against his elbow, and how neither of them moved away.

\-----

 

Two hours later, Jared fishes through his schoolbag for a pencil but feels something silky against his fingers. He pulls out the slipcover for Jensen’s glasses, which must have gotten mixed up with Jared’s belongings at the library.

The bag is made of dark, slate colored fabric with a soft suede-like lining. Jared idly cinches and opens the bag, playing with the smooth drawstring cord as he listens to his last lecture of the day.

Of course, he can’t keep the slipcover. No, Jared will just have to find some way of getting it back to Jensen.


	3. Chapter 3

“Hey Kerry, you got any time after class today?” 

Sandy shuffles out the classroom, keeping the door open for her friend. Three people squeeze in first in their haste to get out, but Kerry eventually appears. 

She replies, “Nah, I’m meeting someone, sorry. Why?”

“Oh, I just have to go do some admin stuff, but I hate waiting in line alone,” she says, making a face. “Oh well. I’ll live.” Sandy slings on her rucksack, hand automatically going to pull her long hair aside so it won’t get caught beneath the straps. “I’ve got exciting things to do in line anyway. Like the reading assignment.”

“You do that, love,” Kerry chuckles and pats her on the shoulder. They part at the walkway, Kerry leaving with a cheerful “I’ll see you next week!”

Sandy waves her friend off, then squares her shoulders and troops off towards Vitton Hall.

 _Ugh_ , she groans as students start pouring out of class, many of them headed in the same direction she is. Sandy picks up the pace and it only takes her a few minutes to cross the South Quad.

After she’s slipped through the large glass doors in the wake of another student, she spies the back of a familiar figure halfway down the hall. The towering form of a floppy-haired student rises above the crowd and when he hoists his messenger bag up to reveal a peepshow of skin at the hem of a too-short sweatshirt, Sandy instantly recognizes him.

 _What’s Jared doing here?_ Sandy wonders as she scrambles after him, taking two steps for every one of his freakishly long ones. But upon nearing the Provost’s office she passes a daunting queue of waiting students and slows down to approach the sign-up sheet, which hangs on a clipboard at the door.

She quickly scrawls her name, frowning at the twenty others that precede hers, then sets off to find Jared again.

 _Ooh, he better not have any class right now_ , she thinks, cheering up at the prospect of not having to spend the next hour waiting for an advisor with just _The Penelopiad_ for company.

\-----

 

 _Today_ , Jared tells himself. _I’ll find him today, and give back his bag._

Or so he told himself, two days ago. As well as yesterday. But today, honestly, he’ll find Jensen _for sure_.

Apparently staking out the fifth floor of Westborough Library isn’t enough. Neither is wearing his Chucks down to the sole as he spends half the day traversing campus (does Jensen’s building have to be so bloody well _far?_ ), and apparently, there is no such thing as “mind over matter” because if there was, Jensen would be here with a rose between his teeth. No, apparently finding the elusive, swaggering American takes _intervention._

So on Friday Jared skips a seminar entirely and heads to the southern edge of campus, long strides eating up lengths of pavement and grass, but it can’t bring him there fast enough.

 _Maybe he goes home for lunch_ , Jared frets, speeding up his gait into a confident power-walk. _Maybe that’s why I keep missing him, because he catches the bus right after class._

Jared continues along this vein until he’s dropped into Vitton Hall and makes his way through the architecture block, peeking in through doors before he finally decides to simply ask around, see if anybody knows Jensen. Jared locates the office for the Architecture department and quickly ducks inside.

“Hey,” he says to the woman sitting behind the front desk. She has her back turned and doesn’t acknowledge him, so Jared clears his throat. “Excuse me.”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t had the chance to close the door yet. We’re closed between one and two for lunch, dear.”

“I just have a quick question—“ Jared interjects as she reluctantly turns around to look up at him. “I’m trying to track down a student here, Jensen? Any idea where I might find him?”

The woman’s face lights up like a flipped switch and her cheeks turn rosy. She leans forward, giving Jared her full attention. “Oh, the handsome one you mean?”

“What? No,” Jared frowns. “I mean, yes. Er…” He shifts his weight and hoists his bag up with his shoulder. “Can you just tell me if he’s here today?”

“Oh, well I can’t say for sure. But if he’s in the building, he’ll almost certainly be in the studio.”

Jared blinks at her.

“Oh, not an architecture student then?” Jared shakes his head. “It’ll be upstairs on the second floor. You’ll know it because it’s the largest room, with the big windows.”

“Thanks,” Jared says, offering a wide smile at the helpful information. “Have a nice lunch!”

“Thank you, darling,” she says as she gets up and closes the door after him. Jared easily finds a staircase and lopes up, two steps at a time, hands in his sweatshirt pockets; buried inside is the slipcover for Jensen’s glasses and Jared pinches the corner of the satin, worrying the smooth fabric that’s warm from being against his belly all day.

The studio is easily found. As Jared climbs up to the second floor, a door abruptly shows up on his left-hand side and beyond it a long, unbroken stretch of glass pane and concrete wall lends the room almost a display case effect. Jared peers in, eyes squinting into the flooded light that streams in from an equally vast view of the campus.

 _Hey, we don’t get any classrooms like this_ , Jared sulks, thinking of the windowless lecture halls that Trotter boasts. He steps forward to get a better look and scans the studio which, despite its substantial space, is swallowed by high tables drowned in piles of wood and drafting tools, while any ground not taken up by the tables is occupied by tall stools that bump against each other. Against the far wall is a low counter with computers lined up like broken teeth.

Jared’s eyes travel to the end of the wall, then stop on a figure clad in a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up and body hunched over a laptop that’s plugged in next to the old-school computers.

An irrational panic launches Jared back into the stairwell. _Bleeding hell_ , he thinks, surprised at his own reaction. He hadn’t realized just how much emotional investment he’s made in this errand but now that he’s located Jensen, now that he’s about to go in and actually _talk_ to him, it’s kind of fucking nerve-wracking. 

Jared waits a bit, lets his heart resume a healthy tempo before pulling the drawstring bag out of his sweatshirt pocket and waving it around a bit so that it’s not so goddamned warm (and obvious that he’d been keeping it close). Sticking it into the front flap of his bag, Jared inhales through his nose, then climbs back into the hallway.

He politely raps twice on the door before letting himself in.

Jensen turns around at the sound, his face betraying nothing but pleasure at the sight of Jared’s hesitant form. “Jay.”

“Hullo,” Jared says, squeezing between two stools that screech loudly when he scoots them over. He coughs. “Where is everybody?”

“There’s usually a class in here, but everyone’s in London today, looking at Lloyds Building. I think they’re covering the 20th century this week.”

“You lot get to go on _trips?_ ” Jared says, aghast. “That is so—“ He cuts himself off before he can say _unfair_ and thus confirm that he is, in fact, two.

“Unfair?” Jensen finishes for him. Jared nods dumbly as Jensen chuckles, the timbre of it warming the otherwise brisk room.

Jared is about to defend that statement when Jensen leans back in his low swivel chair and pushes up his glasses, and Jared suddenly remembers why he came in the first place.

“Oh, I came by to return this,” Jared says, moving forward and perching on the stool in front of Jensen. The bite of cold metal goes straight through to his skin but he plunks his bag on his lap anyway and pulls out the drawstring bag, surreptitiously checking that no lint or anything gross got stuck on it during its travels before he hands it over.

“Oh awesome, I’ve had to wear these things for the past three days ‘cause I didn’t want to scratch them up,” Jensen says. Unbidden images— _glasses perched on freckled cheekbones. Metal legs toying between lips. Lens wiped on the hem of a T-shirt and skin underneath, skin underneath_ — steal into Jared’s mind. When Jensen removes the eyewear, folding the legs in and sliding them into the small slipcover, something like disappointment creeps into Jared. But then vivid green irises peer up at him, glinting gold beneath thick lashes, and Jared thinks he can live with this too.

However, when said eyes flicker down to linger over Jared’s mouth he is slowly left unbearably aware of how uncomfortable the metal stool is, how he has an inexplicable urge to flee now that his errand is over, and how inconvenient it is that his nervous habit just happens to include biting his lips raw. This habit probably doesn’t help in making Jensen stop _staring_ at his mouth. 

Jared clears his throat uncomfortably, licks his abused lips one last time and says, “Plaid?”

Jensen’s eyes trip up from Jared’s chewed lips. “What’s that?”

“You’re wearing plaid,” Jared says, slowly gaining momentum. “If I didn’t believe you were older than me before, I definitely believe it now,” he says, hint of a mischievous smile growing.

Jensen turns his seat so that he’s facing Jared head-on and proceeds to glare up at him, though any ferocity is dampened by an amused quirk of the lips.

Jared watches with interest as Jensen finally sets his glasses on the counter, then stands up so that he’s eye-level with Jared. Jensen steps in until his faded boots skim the metal legs of Jared’s chair and suddenly, in the span of a breath, the stakes have changed.

“If you hate what I’m wearing so much…” Jensen trails off teasingly as his fingers track up, settling on a fastened button. His fingernail skates off the little plastic disc, then moves back in and undoes the first closure, revealing more of Jensen’s thin, white shirt hidden beneath.

Jared feels his throat dry, doesn’t even notice when his canvas bag slips off his lap and onto the floor with a softened thud. Jensen’s eyes skitter back down to his mouth and Jared realizes with great discomfit that his lips must have automatically snuck back in between his teeth. But Jensen only mirrors the motion, tucking the barest hint of lower lip under his front teeth as his hands run on auto-pilot, undoing the next two, three, four buttons.

 _Five_ … Jared counts dazedly, and then Jensen’s shirt is completely open. The edges hang down in parallel lines with a great divide of white to breach the plaid patterning.

The act of breathing lulls the two in like lapping waves and Jensen slowly drifts in. With mounting embarrassment, Jared looks down but when he sees the faint yet unmistakable peaks of Jensen’s stiffened nipples through thin white fabric, mortification quivers through him. Jared’s eyes shoot back up and he knows, bloody _hell_ , that there’s a guilty flush working over his face despite the chill in the air.

“Jay,” Jensen says, and _fuck_ if that wasn’t a groan lurking in the shadows of his name.

“Wh… what?”

“I’ll tell you a secret.”

Conflicting emotions of _Ohshit_ and _Yes_ rip at Jared’s chest, baring his thickly beating heart and plopping it wetly onto his sleeve. Jensen leans ever nearer, mouth inches from Jared’s, and the battling feelings soon petrify as Jared just… can’t. Think. Anymore. 

Soft, full lips open to speak.

“I left my stuff with you, so that you’d come looking for me.” Jensen’s words tickle Jared’s wetted lips, and he places a firm hand on the table edge jutting into Jared’s lower back.

 _Trapped_ , he panics. Jared watches Jensen watch his mouth, wishing that he didn’t feel so much like some tasty edible underneath that wanting gaze. “Um,” he whispers.

Unheeding, Jensen rocks forward, seduced by the sheer energy that shakes off Jared in electric thrums. Plaid cotton drapes onto denim-clad thighs and Jensen’s other hand comes down, effectively boxing him in. Jared’s breathing hitches at the confinement while the murmur-soft sensation of trailing fabric shoots through the weave of his denims, flutters over skin and prickles straight up his spine in a static shiver.

Jensen’s lips part.

 _He’s not—no. No fucking way he’d—_ Jensen shuts off Jared’s inner monologue with a firm, commanding kiss. _Oh._

Jensen’s lips are as soft as they look, as pliant as he speaks. Jensen’s chest radiates warmth like a furnace and if Jared leans in, it’s just because it’s cold in the concrete studio; it’s brisk through the autumn-chilled windows, and if Jensen is here (in his _lap_ , oh _God_ ), then what’s stopping Jared from leaning in an inch or two and claiming some of that heat for himself?

Encouraged, Jensen presses in and starts to deepen the kiss, parting once to breathe before surging in and chasing the gap between their lips along with Jared’s momentary fear.

As fingers come up to play with the curls at the back of Jared’s neck, his mind comes sneaking back to him in jumbles of _Ohgod we’re— fuck he smells good,_ followed by _oh_ fuck _not now_. Jared wriggles and adjusts himself, attempting to distract Jensen by opening his mouth in invitation.

He feels Jensen smirk against his lips. _Damn it_. But then Jensen teasingly flicks his tongue at Jared’s teeth and suddenly, Jared could care less if his Mum knew he had a monster stiffy, so long as Jensen kept— _yeah_ — kept _that_ up.

“Mmm,” Jared lets out a little whine that turns his face red when he hears it but Jensen doesn’t seem to mind. He breaks the kiss with a muttered “shit, Jay” and then crushes back in, hands burned into Jared’s neck and lower back like palm-shaped brands.

Feeling lightheaded, Jared starts to wrap his arms around Jensen’s waist for leverage when his cell phone suddenly explodes into a singing clamor inside his bag, rattling between pen case and keys.

Mentally swearing a blue streak, Jared desperately hopes that Jensen will just ignore it and keep his mouth on his, but he doesn’t. Jensen stills, then stops and moves off.

“Maybe you should get that,” Jensen says, licking his lips. Jared does nothing, willing his phone to stay quiet when— no, it goes off again. He bends over and wrestles it out of his bag.

“Hello?” Jesus Christ.

“Hey Jared! I saw you go into Vitton, where are you?”

“Oh, hello Sandy.” Jared shoots Jensen an apologetic grimace as he turns around in his seat, hunching forward and placing his elbows on the table. “I’m uh, just in the building. Why, where are you?”

“I’m waiting in line to see my advisor. I just figured if you’re here, you should come down and keep me company!”

“Sandy, uh,” Jared ventures a look behind him but Jensen’s back in the swivel chair, politely distracting himself on his laptop. He sees Jensen idly touch his glasses slipcover and Jared wonders if he’s going to put them back on.

“Jared?”

“Oh right, I…” Jared stalls, groping for an excuse legitimate enough to warrant staying here, in both Sandy and Jensen’s eyes, but Jensen’s already pulled up his previous schoolwork and Jared deflates. “I’ll… be right there. Just give me a sec.”

Disappointment settles over him like a thick cloud and he shuts his phone off. “Um, hey.”

Jensen turns a bit, looking at Jared over his shoulder. “Gotta go?”

“Uh…” Jared slides off the stool. “Yeah.” He bends down to pick up his messenger bag and hauls it up.

An awkward moment passes as Jensen stays silent and Jared shifts his weight. Finding no possible way to follow up what had just transpired (and honestly, what _had_ just happened?), Jared only blows his breath over his fringe.

“I’ll see you later?” he asks, cautiously hopeful.

“Yeah,” Jensen says, but the intense warmth from earlier has dissipated into cordiality.

“Okay,” Jared replies, crestfallen. “Later.”

He leaves out the nearest door and sticks his hands in his pockets, feeling self-conscious and on display as he strides past the enormous window.

If he’d turned around, he would have seen Jensen watch him go, a slight frown wrinkling his forehead.

\-----

 

Jared finds Sandy downstairs, where she said she’d be. There are twelve students in front of her and Jared has to reassure the guy behind them that he isn’t queue jumping before he’s allowed to lean against the wall without dirty looks coming his way.

Sandy peers up at him. Jared looks… defeated. Guilt wells up in her as she studies the slump of his shoulders, the thin line of his lips, and she distressingly acknowledges the fact that she had just relinquished her title of Platonic Best Friend in favor of Jealous Hussy.

It’s just that… when she’d finally found Jared, upstairs in the wide, open room, he was. Jensen had been.

Sandy bites her lip.

Jensen’s hands traveling up Jared’s long, lean back, rumpling thick fabric in its quest to find skin; skin at Jared’s neck, fingers in soft hair and Jared had leaned in. Leaned in like it was the only thing he could do, like it was the only thing he ever wanted.

She’d tried, she’d really tried to leave the two of them alone, to let whatever happen, happen. For Jared’s sake, if anything. But it was the horror, the gaping feeling of wrongness that flooded her as she studied Jared’s familiar back with foreign hands all over it. 

Sandy has never looked at Jared’s back, has never needed to when his smiling teeth are blinking down at her. The sudden knowledge of how Jared looks from behind scares her, and when she realizes how much she needs Jared in the forefront of her life, it leaves her winded.

“So, what are you going in for?” Jared asks.

Sandy swallows thickly. Hating her own weakness, she winds her arm through Jared’s and proceeds to chat with him about university, about how she needs to drop a class to manage this term, and as Sandy talks she watches Jared nod at everything she says, pertinent or not.

Sandy tightens her hold and Jared feels it. He straightens up, drops a kiss into her hair and looks down at her. She relaxes.


	4. Chapter 4

God, it’s been weeks. _Weeks_ , and Jared feels like he’s going out of his _bloody mind._

It’s nearing final exams and Jared’s classes are finally showing their teeth. The upcoming debate meet means no more skiving off evening practices, and moreover, he’s promised interviews to a few publications that take place between lectures. In short, no time for study breaks at the library, no time for swinging by Vitton.

No time for _Jensen_ , and the very thought makes Jared want it all the more.

It’s lunchtime now and with all of ten minutes to feed himself before another block of classes, Jared spends it at the trusty Student Union with a plate of baked ziti.

 _It’s not like he doesn’t know where my department is_ , Jared mopes as he shovels pasta into his mouth. He tries not to think about how if Jensen even cared, they would’ve at least seen each other once or twice since The Incident.

Jared blushes at the memory and takes another bite of food, when a shadow falls over him. He looks up—sees dark hair flipped over a shoulder.

“Where’s Damon?” Sandy asks, sitting down and unwrapping her sandwich.

“No idea. Maybe he’s with Christina?”

She nods. The two friends eat in companionable silence, Sandy highlighting and marking a paperback as Jared plots his week’s schedule in an attempt to dream up an excuse to go to go visit Jensen’s building.

Jared checks his watch. Five minutes until class. “Sandy, wanna walk with me to Trotter?”

“Sure,” she says agreeably, capping her pink highlighter with a smart _click_. They pack up and leave the Student Union.

A few steps outside, Jared catches the sight of a figure reclining against a silver birch tree. _Ohshit_ , he mentally swears.

Confused at the abrupt stop, Sandy follows Jared’s line of vision and her chest tightens when she sees— _of course_ — Hooker-Boy Jensen himself. She sighs and dutifully follows when Jared makes his way over.

Jensen notices them halfway over and his posture visibly stiffens.

Jared stops, awkwardly staged between Jensen and Sandy, and he shyly ( _Shyly?_ Sandy gapes.) says, “Hi.”

“Hey yourself.” Jensen’s eyes flick over to Sandy and she pinches a smile.

“Oh, this is Sandy. Sandy, Jensen,” Jared introduces, stepping aside for them to shake hands. His forehead wrinkles when Jensen sends her a slow, lopsided grin and her tight smile loosens up in return, and Jesus Christ, just how long does a handshake have to last? Jared cuts in, “Haven’t seen you around lately.” God, he hopes that didn’t sound as petulant as it did in his head.

“Yeah. Been busy,” Jensen replies as he ( _finally_ ) drops Sandy’s slim hand, voice clipped and eyes distant.

Jared’s frown deepens as Jensen turns his attention to Sandy, asking polite questions like how they know each other and such, and Jared just kind of wants to scream _Look at **me** _ , but he refrains. Barely.

Still, he can only take it for so long and after a conversation and a half have passed, Jared blurts out, “So, it’s nice seeing you Jensen, but I have lecture now. Gotta run.”

Jensen’s eyes briefly make contact before they dart to the side. _What the hell?_ Jared wonders as he stares at Jensen’s face, willing the subtle expressions flitting across to tell him all the secrets to the universe. Or at least the secrets to what the hell is even _going on._

“I thought you had class,” Jensen says at Jared’s silence and this time when green eyes lift, there’s desire lingering in Jensen’s irises, in the bite of his lower lip. And then it shuts off again, like a blown fuse. 

“Right,” Jared says, belatedly. Jensen twists his lips into a perfunctory smile but Jared doesn’t, _can’t_ return it.

“It was nice to finally meet you,” Sandy says, glossing over the awkward pause with practiced ease. Jensen nods back in reply and then, they leave.

 _Did he just… dump me?_ Jared knows how stupid that sounds, but still. It’s how it feels. He’d grown accustomed to Jensen’s languid teasing, his toe-curling warmth and alluring gazes, but in the blink of an eye, none of it was there anymore. At all. Snuffed out like a candle, there’s nothing left of Jensen’s affection but a trail of smoke and ash in the form of evasive, guarded eyes.

Something had changed since the last time they’d been together, but for the _life of him_ , Jared can’t puzzle it out.

Later in class, he’s still wondering about when exactly he’d missed the memo when he bites down especially hard on his pen. The back of the plastic tube splits open and blue ink spills onto his lip.

 _Shit_ , he curses, noticing blue stains on his hand and imagining how ridiculous it must look on his face.

This is turning out to be a really shitty-ass week. Jared puts his head down, cradled between the open pages of his thick government text, and tiredly closes his eyes.

\-----

 

It’s a warm day. Wait— let’s rephrase that.

It’s a warm day for December in Braxton, and Jensen pulls his wool coat closer against his chest as he thinks about winter in California; candy cane frappuccinos in Westwood Village, evergreen sidewalks with his shades on and shirt off. The sound of the ocean whispering behind holiday jingles, and afternoon barbecues in the sun.

But, all things are relative. And today, it is relatively warm. Jensen leans against a birch tree, gloved hands tucked into his armpits, and watches Jared and Sandy’s retreating figures. Halfway across the Student Union, he can still see the back of Jared’s head bobbing over the sea of students but the petite brunette is swallowed up and gone.

“Hey,” a loud voice calls out. Jensen looks up and spots his classmate, Mike Rosenbaum. He pushes off the tree with his shoulder and falls in step with the East Londoner, who’s busy pulling a violently green beanie over his shorn head. Mike asks, “What were you doing with England’s poster couple?”

“What?” Jensen frowns, scratching the back of his head as they climb the steps leading into the bookstore.

“Jared Padalecki and Sandra McCoy, right?”

“Uh... yeah.” Jensen wrinkles his forehead in confusion. “How do you know Jared?”

“What do you mean?” Mike asks, looking at him like there’s a second head growing out of Jensen’s neck.

He repeats, “I mean… how do you know Jared?” 

The two of them are making their way to the art department of the store when Mike stops in his tracks. “Wait… I think I missed something here. How do _you_ know Jared Padalecki?”

“Bumped into him in Vitton one day. We’re friends...sort of.” Jensen spies a large metal case at the far wall of the bookstore and walks over, Mike following behind in silence. Jensen approaches the rack, rifling through wooden sheets and dowels and scanning the other model-making materials as he pointedly ignores the gaping-fish look Mike is shooting him.

“You do know that he’s famous, right?”

Jensen blinks, hand stalling on a strip of balsa wood.

Mike continues. “Jared Padalecki, son of Gerald Padalecki, director of the BBC3? Or maybe it was BBC4, I forget.”

Jensen indulges a lengthy pause, his fingers running over the soft fibers of the wooden strip in his hand. “I didn’t know that,” he finally says.

Mike just chuckles and claps Jensen on the shoulder. “Well, now you do. You’re friends with a trendy, celebrity millionaire. Live it up, Jenny.”

Jensen continues picking out the materials he needs for his model, but everything feels mechanical as his brain clunks with the surprising news.

 _This doesn’t change anything, does it?_ he asks himself, mentally stretching and molding his strange relationship with Jared to see if anything cracks, to see if anything’s different in light of the new information. Nothing really changes, and Jensen repeats, _This doesn’t change anything._

\-----

 

Three hours later, Jensen remembers Mike’s original words, before he’d gotten sidetracked.

“So what did you mean by ‘England’s poster couple’?” Jensen interjects into the radio-filled noise of the studio, hands busy as he saws at a dowel. Mike keeps one hand on the drying glue of his plywood model, but turns around and asks, “What?”

“Jared Padalecki and Sandy McCoy. Earlier you said they were ‘England’s poster couple?” Jensen realizes he’s sort of answered his own question already but, well. He’s always been a bit of a masochist.

“Oh yeah. _Jared Padalecki and Sandra McCoy_ , it’s practically one name,” Mike says flippantly. “I think they’re like, betrothed or something completely bollocksed like that.”

Jensen freezes, his serrated blade halfway through the birch dowel. 

When he goes back to sawing, his hand slips and the blade nicks his thumb. Jensen swears and tosses the tool on the table, pushes himself off the stool, then strides out of the studio, nursing the wound with his mouth.

Mike looks on in mild interest before shrugging and going back to his project.

Outside, Jensen plunks himself down on the front steps. He runs a hand over his face, mashing in his eye sockets with the heels of his palms, and the pressure soothes him a little.

“Fuck,” he says. He listens to the syllable dissipate into the air, and it isn’t enough. “Fuck that,” he tries, and it’s better.

“Fuck him,” Jensen mutters, and it’s better still. He watches straggling students roam the South Quad for a few minutes before going back inside and sauntering through the hallways, lost in thought.

He doesn’t let it go on for too long, however. There’s a lot of work to do and Jensen has more important things to concern himself with. More important things than looking forward to each day with the possibility of earnest, nervous eyes blinking down at him. More important than heady exhilaration at the thought of tall, gangly limbs…

_Wide, bitten lips and teeth the color of porcelain. Hair falling into feline eyes and the thing is, Jared had leaned in, he’d kissed him back, damn it. Fucking betrothed to some rich bitch and still, he’d **kissed him back.**_

“Fuck,” Jensen says aloud, harsh consonants reverberating off the walls. A student walking by glances at him and Jensen stares back until the kid scuttles into a classroom.

\-----

 

Late that night, Jensen gets a phone call.

“Hey, butt-face.”

“Danneel?” Jensen grumbles. “Ugh… you know what time it is over here, don’t you?”

“Of course. I just don’t care.”

“Ever the sweetheart,” he groans, sitting up in bed and rubbing sleepiness out of his eyes. “So. What’s up?”

“You busy this weekend?”

Jensen stills. “Uh… what do you mean?”

“I’m gonna be in town for a few days!”

“You serious?”

“Yeah I’m serious. And I am fully expecting you to put me up for the weekend.”

“Depends,” Jensen grins, leaning back on his elbows. “How much you gonna pay me?”

“Funny, that’s what you ask all the girls, isn’t it?”

“Fuck you,” Jensen replies dryly. He’s sensitive about that. And really, why do people always think he’s a hustler?

“Love you too, darling. Anyway, I’ll give you a call when I’m in town, ‘k?”

“Yeah, okay,” Jensen replies. Danneel hangs up abruptly, as is her whirlwind tendency, and Jensen tosses his own phone back onto his nightstand. When he settles in to fall back asleep, it’s with a gentle grin on his lips. Lord knows he could use a little backup these days.

\-----

 

He’s alive. Two weeks from Hell, but Jared’s alive.

“I’m still here,” he says aloud. His friends barely spare him a look, adapted as they are to Jared’s habit of conversing with himself. “Hey guys, I’m still here.”

“Bully for you, Jay,” Kendrick says. He pulls a drag off his cigarette and goes back to describing the recent fluctuations in the London Stock Exchange.

“Fuck Dow Jones,” Jared says flipping onto his stomach. “It’s Thursday night, I’ve just barely made it out alive and I need to get shit-faced tonight.”

The boys in the room perk up. Damon’s nodding thoughtfully and Paul looks interested for the first time that evening. Clarence is easy-going and will do whatever the others do, and only Kendrick looks put off.

“Oi, I still have class tomorrow morning,” he says, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray.

“Screw class. Come help me get bladdered,” Jared replies, arms hanging off of Kendrick’s bed. He doesn’t fit on the futon. “C’moooon,” Jared whines.

“I’m in,” Paul says. Damon seconds this and Clarence shrugs.

“I’ve got shit to do before tomorrow,” Kendrick groans. “Fine. Guys, get the boy pissed, shut him up for me.”

Jared beams. The four of them leave Kendrick’s apartment and venture out into the night. It’s cold, foggy as the inside of a rain cloud and they can barely see two feet in front of them, but they find the tube station through muscle memory. Inside the damp, tiled station, they fight over which bar to hit up. 

“Artesian, man. The girls there’ll do _anything_.” 

“Fuck that, they’re all old enough to be your Mum.” 

When nobody can agree on anything, they play Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Underground and a dizzy Jared puts his finger somewhere between Noble and Coleman.

“Red Monkey it is,” Clarence confirms. Paul groans, muttering about how it’s a fucking dance club and he doesn’t want to dance, but Jared pulls a puppy face and the dark-haired boy grudgingly agrees.

It’s a twenty-five-minute ride to the club. A fifteen-minute wait to get in, eight minutes to get their drinks, and another twenty to get Jared good and hammered.

As Jared blithely chats it up with the bartender, leaking BBC network information in exchange for four shots of tequila, Paul pulls his camera phone out and snaps a Jared-shaped blur for Kendrick.

When Jared returns, Damon reprimands, “Mixing alcohols is bad for you, Jay,” though he willingly takes a shot glass and a lime.

“It’s not _‘Jay’!_ ” Jared sloshes the remaining alcohol, but the liquid just spills from glass to glass. Jared smiles proudly. “Didn’t spill any. Now take!”

Clarence and Paul collect their own shots and limes. The four boys clink, drink, and bite down on sour fruit in unison.

Jared sets his emptied glass onto the table, though the wood smacks up a lot higher than he’d anticipated. _Uh oh, getting drunk. Yes_. He puts his head on the table and blearily looks out onto the dance floor. From Jared’s sideways angle, the writing bodies look like columns of shiny flesh and fabric. He sees Jensen in the fray somewhere, dancing with a hot blonde chick, and _Oh, much drunker than I thought._

He blinks contentedly for a few more minutes before Paul slaps him on the back.

“Hey, it’s a little early for that, isn’t it?” he yells over the music.

Jared sits up obediently, keeping a ravenous gaze on the Jensen-that-doesn’t-exist. Mmm…he sure thinks about him a lot.

“Dude, who are you staring at?” Damon leans over and yells into Jared’s ear.

“What?”

“That guy. Who is he?”

“Jensen,” Jared shouts happily, until. _Wait_. “Wait, you can _see him?_ ”

“You’re sloshed, mate,” Damon shouts back, and he looks like he’s going to say more but the song changes and the rising, deafening beat makes for a discouraging battle to be heard. Damon shrugs.

 _Damon can see him. Uh_. Jared reels a little and holds the edge of the table for support. _Fuck, what the fuck!? Why me? And who the fuck is that girl?_

Jensen-that-actually-exists takes this opportune moment to look up, and their eyes squarely meet. Jared’s throat dries, and he coughs.

God, for just _one night_ Jared didn’t want to have to think about him. Just wanted an easy, glib night at the bars. _Funny how things work_ , Jared thinks, though it’s really not.

But then again… Jensen holds his gaze steady over the spinning, neon lights and silhouettes of shimmying bodies, doesn’t even blink when people pass between them. And then Jensen smiles, a slow and sure reveal of straight, white teeth.

 _He’s looking at me. And smiling_. Jared swallows thickly. _He’s **looking** at me ohfuck_ and Jared feels himself tense, arms and legs going jittery.

“Hey, what the hell?” Damon protests as his pint glass is snatched up. Jared guzzles the beer down, then wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist.

Yuck, light beer. Jared stands up, pretty steadily he thinks, and makes his way onto the dance floor.

\-----

 

It isn’t a very large dance club. No, the whole space is only about as wide as a small lecture hall, and everybody here is jammed up against each other. On the way to the hardwood floor, the area that divides serious, _dancing_ folk from the martini-sipping kids at the bar, Jared acquires a couple girls. They waft to him like static cling, and while he usually hates feeling like the party-boy the press makes him out to be, well, Jared’s kind of thinking this is actually a brilliant idea if Jensen’s darkening gaze is anything to go by.

 _Serves him right_ , Jared smugly thinks as he encircles a tiny waist with his hands. Another girl behind him settles into a grinding, undulating groove like Jared’s a pole to dance around, and Jared repeats, _Serves him right, because, fuck, I’m a catch._ A tall, leggy brunette who almost comes up to Jared’s chin struts over in platform heels, floating into the electric field. _**Such** a catch. I am—_

“—fucking hot!” Jared yells drunkenly.

“What?” The girl in front of him leans in, hands damp on his bare forearms.

“I’m fucking HOT!”

“Thanks!” she replies, a pleased smile gracing red lips. Jared is confused for a few moments, and then shrugs and keeps on rubbing. He hopes Jensen is watching.

\-----

 

Jensen is not watching that. He’s _so not_ watching that. It’s disgusting, depraved, it’s _obscene_ is what it is; a virtual _orgy_ unfolding on the dance floor and Jensen doesn’t have to sully his eyes with that.

He bites his lip as one of the girls sinks to her knees, then shimmies back up mile-long legs. _Mother **fuck**. _

Not that he doesn’t have his own pretty thing to play with; the chick in front of him is sexy in her own right. Spunky, cropped blonde hair and an ass made for grabbing, but she just isn’t doing it for him. She isn’t doing it for _Jared_ , who keeps fucking looking at Jensen like the cat that got the cream.

Danneel finally comes back, drinks in tow, and Jensen snatches one out of her hands.

“Grabby grabby!”

“What is this?” Jensen asks. But by the time she can respond “Rum and coke!” it’s halfway down his esophagus. He sets the plastic cup onto a ledge somewhere and steps into Danneel’s space, feeling his way around her supple curves and pulling her in.

“Make it look good, babe,” Jensen hoarsely says into her ear, and she smiles. Ooh, this is always _so_ much fun.

Danneel shakes her hair, letting her natural waves fluff out a bit more, and she turns; naked shoulder blades against Jensen’s chest, and _slithers_ down Jensen’s body like viscous honey. When she’s somewhere in the vicinity of Jensen’s abs, he searches out for Jared and finds the boy staring at him. Even from here he can tell, Jared isn’t happy.

 _Two can play_ , Jensen thinks. _And I’ll win, kiddo._

\-----

 

Oh shit, if Jared thought Jensen was dancing before… fucking _shit._

Some really hot redhead with sexy-wild hair had just waltzed up to Jensen, handed him an _open drink_ (hasn’t the guy ever heard of Rope?), and then plastered herself onto him like paint on a wall. And damn, could the girl _dance_.

Suddenly, the previous beat switches, dips, and skips. Oh, no. No, nonono _no_. 

They’re playing Sexy Back. They’re playing fucking _Sexy Back_ and holy Shit motherofGod do Jensen and his girl know this song, because she lights up and bounces at him in her sleazy plunging neckline and open back dress and then—

Shoulders hipping to the low bass line, she’s backing away from Jensen and he’s cocked back, loose, easy. His shoulders cinch along, their hands barely touching, fingers intertwining in and out, and then she switches, she’s fucking stalking Jensen in a circle like he’s trussed up _quarry_ and _oh_.

Jensen and his girl know this song, and they’re performing a fucking music video for the crowd, which has backed into a semi-circle of pulsing bodies that acknowledge the prowling, hormone-driven couple.

Jared hasn’t stopped his own grinding; his girls know their stuff too, and they’re performing a lovely rendition of the song using his body as a prop, but shit, they don’t have _anything_ on the primal duo that’s taking the club by storm.

Jared’s throat dries with pure, unadulterated jealousy. Yes, he’s drunk enough to admit it, though not enough to admit who he’s jealous _of_ , but he watches them dance and he knows, Jesus _Christ_ does he know, that when this song’s over it’s _payback_ time.

Jensen meets his gaze across the club and smiles in triumph, then— _fuck_ — leisurely tilts his head back in erotic pleasure, baring a swath of suckable neck that looks like nirvana from Jared’s vantage point. Jensen’s hands trail down pale, sultry skin until they land on her hips like home, and she lifts a divine leg, wrapping it around Jensen’s lower back so that they’re not even dancing anymore, she’s full on massaging Jensen’s crotch with her knickers and you know, that’s it. That’s _it_.

Jared shakes off the girls that are still writhing on him and they whimper, trying to entice him back with sinuous limbs but Jared just barrels forward.

It isn’t a very large dance club, and it only takes a little jostling to quickly approach Jensen and that undulating hussy who is unfortunately glued to the front of Jensen’s pants. He can help with that.

Jared lunges forward, claps a hand on her silky shoulder and pries her off of him as Jensen watches with labored breath and blown pupils.

Except, now that Jared’s main goal (get her _off_ of Jensen) is accomplished, he doesn’t quite know what to do with, uh… _huh_.

Despite Jared’s brusqueness, the girl doesn’t seem to mind and she backs up, hypnotically grinding her arse against Jared’s crotch. This… Jared can do this. He rolls with it, rocking down as she straddles his thigh and then shit...shit, Jensen sways forward and joins them.

Jensen slides a hand on the girl’s bared upper thigh, his strokes mesmerizing in their gentleness. She noticeably shivers and widens her legs, letting Jared thrust up with his own and then Jensen’s hand slips onto, well. _Jared’s_ upper thigh.

 _Oh, shit_. Jared is so. Fucked.

\-----

 

God, the kid’s got balls. Yanking a girl like that at any other time will get a guy mauled, or worse, but then again it’s just Jensen and they both know any mauling would be of the good variety.

Well, good, if you can ignore the fact that Jay’s got himself a famous, beautiful girlfriend at home, probably knitting baby booties as she waits for her fiancé to come home.

Shit, the kid’s really doing a number on him. Jared’s hair is messy and in his face. His lips pull back when he’s dancing and there’s a hint of tongue pressed against teeth that simply will not go away, no matter how long Jensen stares. And he’s been staring a pretty long time.

Despite the little horde of beauties surrounding Jared earlier, the kid must not have been trying, because damn, _this_ Jared is a whole new creature. He’s dancing with Danneel, _interacting_ with her with limbs in all the right places, shaking his head to the beat and strumming her arms with his long fingers. And Danneel likes this, Jensen can tell; she gives Jared her all and does her sexy thing on his thigh.

Jensen looks down. Thrusting between pale, inviting thighs is the stretched-taut fabric of Jared’s denims. Jensen inches forward and joins the two, opening up as Danneel pulls him in and lavishes him with encouragement. Behind her, Jared’s tongue uncurls and swipes across his lips, and his teeth chew the wetted flesh. His eyes don’t leave Jensen’s, feral and narrowed in silent challenge.

_Jesus._

Okay, Jensen can do this dance, this little ménage-à-trois . He isn’t about to be one-upped by some oversexed kid. Jensen touches Danneel’s leg, then moves in for the kill.

 _Mine_ , Jensen thinks as Jared’s rhythm stutters, his hips briefly going out of sync. But Jared recovers quickly and now there’s just determination left, jaw set and eyes focused.

Jared reaches around Danneel’s arms and grabs a fistful of Jensen’s shirtfront, then draws him forward until the girl’s sandwiched, contentedly rocking between them.

 _What are you thinking, Jay?_ Jensen worries. He glances around, wondering if anybody else notices the lust emanating from Jared’s heated gaze, or from the way Jared’s fucking _tonguing_ himself with wet lips and teeth, but everybody’s going about their business.

Jared leans in, over Danneel’s shoulder. And hell, this was fun for a while, but the look in Jared’s eyes as they linger on Jensen’s mouth is positively _dangerous_ , and Jensen’s brain red-flags. _This is going nowhere good._

Jensen swallows, tenses up, and Danneel notices. She lifts her lashes and there’s a question in the tilt of her head, she’s asking _need some help?_ and Jensen gives an imperceptible nod.

She winds slender arms around Jensen’s neck, arches up and kisses him square on the lips.

With sickening regret, Jensen wraps around her and kisses back, nursing her mouth with his own and prolonging it for as long as it takes for…

Jared stops. Stops completely, like a flat note in a chord as the rest of the crowd progresses through the song. Jensen doesn’t have to open his eyes to know what Jared must look like. So, he doesn’t. He patiently waits for the lanky boy to back up, to leave, and only when Danneel pulls her glossed lips off his does Jensen venture a look.

Yeah, Jared’s gone.

Danneel looks up at Jensen anxiously. He’s usually so confident, almost annoyingly so, but the expression on his face right now is anything _but_ reassured.

“So that’s him, huh?” she asks into Jensen’s ear. Not that Jensen’s said anything about anybody but shit, she’s known the guy for _years_ , and this is the first time he’s ever looked like this. Ever looked so… _destroyed._

Eyes searching the dark club for floppy-hair, Jensen eventually says, “Yeah.” 

But Jared’s nowhere to be found. Jensen repeats, “Yeah, that’s him.”

He runs his hand across his face.


	5. Chapter 5

“So why don’t you just go after the kid?” Danneel asks the next day, stirring cream into her mocha with a swizzle stick.

“I can’t,” Jensen replies. He inhales his black coffee but it’s still too hot and he spits it back out.

“That’s disgusting,” she says. Jensen smirks.

It’s late afternoon, Jensen’s done with his classes, and Danneel’s here until Sunday so the two of them are strolling around downtown Braxton with caffeine-to-go and no destination in mind.

“Jensen, it’s me. Just tell me what the hell’s going on already.”

“It’s complicated.” 

“How? I mean, it’s obvious the kid likes you. I don’t think that hard-on smashed up against my back was entirely me, you know.”

Jensen swallows prematurely and the coffee scalds his throat. He coughs, “Dude, cut it out.”

But Danneel doesn’t cut it out, not for the next six blocks of window shopping and coffee-drinking. When they pass a newsstand with publications in racks, Jensen exasperatedly snatches up a bright magazine and thrusts it at his friend.

“You wanna know why it won’t work? That’s why,” he says harshly, finger jabbing into the face of the smiling brunette on the cover. Danneel peers down curiously.

“2008’s Hottest Parties,” she reads the caption aloud, continuing, “Find out where the socialites go to get down. Okay.” Danneel looks up at Jensen, who’s grimacing like he just sucked a lemon. “This tells me nothing.”

“That girl, _Sandy McCoy_ , is Jared’s girlfriend. Or fiancée. Or whatever.”

The man behind the newsstand grunts, “Hey, you gonna buy that?”

Danneel ignores him, saying “Wait… you’re serious?” Jensen nods grimly.

“Hold this,” Danneel orders, handing Jensen her mocha. She takes the magazine and flips through as the bearded man in the booth complains loudly.

“Here,” Jensen says to the man, setting down the cups and fishing out a £2 coin. He hands it over and Danneel’s still flipping pages as Jensen picks up the drinks and ushers her along.

“Sandra McCoy at Martha Hammett’s birthday bash in a stunning number by London designer Christopher Kane,” Danneel reads. “Hey, that’s a really great dress.”

Jensen rolls his eyes.

“Hold on, stop walking so fast,” Danneel says. She quickly locates a green-painted bench and sits down, still skimming the article. Jensen slumps in beside her.

Danneel flips the page. “Huh,” she says. Jensen cranes his neck to look but she turns her back, blocking him.

“What?”

“—Nothing.” She flips the page.

“Nice try,” Jensen snipes and sets the drinks down on the ground before lunging to swipe the publication.

Smiling up at him in full-color glory is a candid snapshot of Jared and Sandy at some snazzy party. Leaning against a glass-top bar, Jared’s kissing Sandy’s forehead, arms wrapped protectively around her as she dreamily smiles up at him. It’s the perfect picture of a happy celebrity couple, and it makes Jensen want to claw his eyes out.

“They’re just rumors, Jensen,” Danneel says, hunting around for her mocha.

“He’s _kissing_ her, for God’s sake.”

“Don’t be such a baby, it’s just on the forehead. And besides, we kiss each other all the time when we want to throw people off. Celebrities need that even more than we do,” Danneel nods resolutely as she finds her mocha and warms her hands around the cup.

Jensen stays quiet. He’s still staring at the picture. Danneel sighs and snatches the magazine back as Jensen lets out a little _hey_. “Look at me Jensen.”

Jensen crosses his arms and slouches on the bench, taking up as much space as he can while he looks the other way.

Annoyed, Danneel reaches over and mercilessly tweaks Jensen’s nipple through his shirts. “I said _look_ at me.”

“Jesus Christ,” he squeaks, embarrassedly meeting eyes with a passerby who goggles sympathetically. Jensen turns around and gives Danneel his Full Attention, absentmindedly rubbing at his sore nipple.

Danneel says, “It isn’t just that, right?”

Jensen looks at her, but his eyes are still stubbornly shuttered.

“It isn’t just that Jared’s famous and you don’t want to drag the kid kicking and screaming out of the closet and into to the arms of the paparazzi. And it’s not that Jared’s dating some fabulously hot chick with a great rack. Nor is it that they’re probably betrothed and destined to have litters of photogenic babies.”

Jensen chokes, “I fucking hate you.”

Danneel softens, and scoots closer. She says gingerly, “It’s because you actually give a damn. Isn’t it, Jensen?”

Jensen looks like he wants to say no, his shoulders tense and scowl gracing his face. But then, like curtains drawn back to reveal a bleak and wintry day, Jensen breaks. The fight in him gives out as he leans forward, elbows on knees, and drops his face into his gloved hands. He wearily rubs for a bit before turning back to look at Danneel, eyes defeated. 

“I’m just…” Jensen bites out. “I’m not used to this, you know? It’s like… if I lose this, I’m _fucked_. I’m not used to that. There’s always been more, there’s always been the next thing. But Jared…”

Danneel listens, biting at the plastic lip of her cup as she watches Jensen—usually so confident—crumble before her.

“The odds are stacked too high against me. And for this, for _Jared_ … I can’t have him, only to lose him halfway out. I just… I’d rather not play at all.”

Danneel studies Jensen’s profile, watching his eyelashes flutter and drop. Jensen toes his coffee, which still sits on the concrete ground.

Bending down to save it from Jensen’s muddy shoes, Danneel says, “Drink up hon. Before it gets too cold.”

\-----

 

On the fifth floor of Westborough Library, Jared is studying. No really, he is. He’s got his textbooks and references spread out before him, and a spiral-bound full of notes.

Jared’s stopped by so often this term, it’s pretty much become a second home.

He sighs and looks down, gazing at the stoic expression of Oliver Cromwell.

 _I bet you never had problems with pretty boys, did you?_ Jared thinks, before putting his head down into the pages. He winds up facing the window. He sees streaks of water ripple against the glass surface as rain blusters across it.

It’s a sopping day in late winter, and Jared revels in the bleak weather. There’s nothing worse than feeling like shit while the sun pours over you and folks blow rainbows up your arse.

Not wanting to get back to work just yet, Jared sits up and cradles his chin, peering outside over the campus. The trickling parade of multi-colored umbrellas makes for a hypnotic view, and he indulges.

Behind him, somebody arrives on the lift; Jared apathetically registers the clunky noise of it, the familiar roll of sliding metal as the doors pull open. Déjà-vu washes over him, reminding him of all the times Jensen had appeared out of those sliding doors; memories of _schoolwork and smiles, Jensen’s glasses, their shoes just touching_ … but Jared refuses to let himself care.

 _It’s not him anyway_ , Jared thinks. A flashback of last week’s night at the club— Jensen’s mouth against red, glossy lips— sneaks in. _He made it perfectly apparent that it would never be him._

Still, Jared can’t help the way his body betrays him, and his chest thuds as squeaking footsteps track across the floor.

Jared’s still facing the window, but he’s staring at the reflection, straining to see behind himself. Beyond his own mirrored image, though, it’s too fuzzy a picture to make anything out.

The sound of wet soles on linoleum gets louder as Jared’s pulse exponentially quickens, but when the owner of the trainers approaches his table, a cloying waft of perfume trails past. His heart sinks.

However, a sudden “Hey” comes up from behind and nearly startles Jared out of his seat. _What the hell?_ he wonders, because the sound of wet footsteps have yet to cease...reluctant, Jared turns around.

It’s Jensen. “Hey yourself,” he says uncertainly. Jared can’t decide whether he’s glad or not to find himself confronted with the flesh-and-blood reason behind his dismal mood. It’s irrelevant, though, because Jensen’s there whether he likes it or not. Jared leans back in his chair to meet Jensen’s gaze, and waits for the other shoe to drop.

“Have you been here the whole time?” Jensen asks.

“For about an hour, yes.”

“I’ve been…” Jensen jerks his thumb back, where Jared can see an open tome and a coffee gracing an empty table.

After a moment’s hesitation, Jensen moves across the table and takes a seat. A splash of giddiness invariably leaps up, but Jared knows he simply _cannot_ entertain it–shoves his hands in his armpits, instead, to keep from reaching out like his instincts would have him do.

“Jared,” Jensen starts, as Jared wonders, _What happened to ‘Jay’?_ “I’m sorry about last week.” 

Jensen leans in, now, elbows on the table—he presses his lips against steepled fingers as Jared stares, chest aching at the sight of the soft give of Jen’s mouth and remembering how supple and moist it felt against his own. 

Then there’s Jensen, who’s nervous and oblivious to it all, as he continues, “And about… before, too. I didn’t mean to uh… give you the wrong idea.” Jensen chews on his nails, teeth flashing against blunt fingertips. Funny, Jared never took him for the nail-biting type.

“So, we okay?” Jensen prompts.

Jared blinks. “Sure. Yes.”

Jensen looks mollified, and gets up. Says something about needing to brainstorm for his final project, and Jared nods appropriately. But halfway back to his table, he suddenly stops, giving off restless energy that makes the back of Jared’s neck tingle.

“Oh, by the way,” Jensen says awkwardly. “This is my last quarter here. I’m done after finals. We should get together sometime before I leave.” After a pause, he clarifies, “Before I move back to California. They’ve got me set up real nice over there, so I won’t be sticking around too long after graduation.”

As Jared digests the information, it feels like a car’s hurtled itself into his stomach. He slowly turns around, lifting his gaze to meet Jensen’s, searching for some indication, _any at all,_ that Jensen hadn’t been serious.

Rueful eyes look back, however, and that’s answer enough.

And bloody fuck, it’s bad enough that Jared’s been getting an overload of confusing, crossed signals from the guy, but to suddenly find out the wire’s gonna be cut entirely? It’s just _harsh._

Jared swallows hard, managing to ask, “How much longer are you going to be in Braxton?”

“About a week, week and a half?” Jensen scratches the back of his head. “Whenever Monday after next is.”

 _So,_ Jared thinks, _Jensen leaves the Monday after next_. That’s ten days from now. In ten short days, Jared’s never going to see Jensen, ever again.

\-----

 

Jensen dreams.

He’s floating, two thousand feet above water. The ocean looks like wrinkled skin below him and it creeps, snail-slow over the Earth’s rind

He’s confined in the air. Although the sky is limitless around him, Jensen can’t move past two strides in any direction. He tries his boundaries, but there’s an invisible ceiling, invisible walls, and no way out. He’s effectively bottled in an illusion of never-ending blue, of mocking freedom.

The sky is so deep, so open that Jensen can’t breathe. He can’t hear, he can’t even speak or scream, though not from lack of trying. The world is still, and mute.

And then, everything ends. Or begins. Without warning, the world explodes into life… _Salt on the breeze and the deafening squall of gulls. There’s chapped wind in his face and sun in his eyes, and gravity sneaks up on Jensen. He doesn’t realize he’s falling, until he’s pierced the surface of the ocean._

\-----

Six days later, Jared approaches the front steps of Vitton Hall to meet Jensen for lunch. He climbs up to the entrance—abruptly spins around, and jogs back down to the sidewalk.

Bugger, he thinks, rubbing his face tiredly. _Get a grip. It’s just food_. Turns back again, and strides up through the door before he can chicken out again.

This time around, he knows where to look for the guy. Locates the stairwell and heads right on up to the second floor, where the studio is. He turns the corner, and _bingo_ —Jensen’s the first thing Jared sees through the large glass window.

He’s in the middle of working on a model, and he’s not alone—the room is dotted with other students, presumably from the same class, and all of whom are probably trying to squeeze as much work as they can into their final projects before deadline. Jensen’s standing off to the side—earphones in, the black wires trail over his cream-colored shirt, and his sleeves are pushed up to the elbow, forearms taut as he saws at a wooden dowel. The sun’s glare refracts off the moving blade to dance over Jensen’s neck in a quivering spotlight.

Jared wonders if it’s warm there, that halo of light on Jensen’s neck. It looks warm.

He quickly realizes the direction his mind’s slipping in, so Jared looks away in hopes of reigning in his hormones. But then Jensen snaps a twig of wood in half and pinches the piece with two fingers, glue gun cocked at the ready, and Jared can help but fall entranced by the slow pressure of Jensen’s finger on the trigger. Clear, hot glue oozes out—Jensen burns himself on it, hand jumping to his mouth. 

Jared doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath, so engrossed as he is in watching Jensen suck at the injury— _full lips puckered over reddening skin_ —only stutters an exhale when Jensen pulls his finger away, slick with spit.

Nonetheless, Jensen’s focused. He’s building the rungs of a miniature tower with a frown on his forehead and lower lip worried between white teeth, and at that image, at Jensen oblivious to the way he’s prettying up his red, wet mouth, it hits Jared, like the dawning of enlightenment: Jared is utterly and completely incapable of handling this—this date, or whatever it is they’ve mistakenly concocted in order to diffuse the raw tension that still burns between them. It dawns on Jared that he’s simply not ready to face Jensen yet—at least, not with a big, fake smile plastered onto his face, and not to spew forth congratulations and well-wishes for the flight and future that will take Jensen halfway across the world from him.

Jared doesn’t even know why he agreed to this ridiculous lunch date, because honestly? He’d rather finish up the school term having aborted a short-lived crush than to tease a doomed relationship (if it could even be called that) to its last, painful ends. He’s just torturing himself, now.

It only takes Jared a split second to make up his mind. He’ll thank himself later. 

He drops down, quick as you please, and turns to go before anyone notices him—but it’s as if Jensen could hear Jared’s internal scheming, the way he instantly looks up from his work and zeroes in on a half-crouched Jared.

Jensen smiles. There are little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He tugs the cords of his earphones and mouths “Jay,” treading over to the door with affectionate eyes.

Jared straightens up, caught, brain still tearing through excuses to bail the fuck out of there, but its way too late to make any sort of plausible escape—Jensen just opens the door from the inside and leans out, chuckling, “What are you doing? Come inside, let me pack up.” Jared nods numbly and follows Jensen inside. Firmly keeps his eyes above indigo-clad hindquarters, thank you very much.

\-----

 

When the waitress gets a good look at Jensen, she smiles coyly and lightly bites down on the end of her pen. Jensen’s too busy looking at the menu to notice, though. 

“I’ll have the bangers and mash,” he finally orders.

“Our bangers are _very_ good here,” she replies.

It’s almost physical, the moment Jensen realizes he’s being baited—he turns stiff, smiling self-consciously under the bedroom eyes she’s making at him. Jared, on the other hand, he just scowls. 

He maybe takes his frustration out on Jensen a little, leaning across the tiny table to grump, “Seriously, Jen? You’ve been in Britain for months now, you should know that bangers are only any good with a pint.”

“Dude, I won’t be able to have this stuff when I’m back home. I’m getting in my English cuisine where I can find it,” Jensen shoots back, his grin turning real when Jared just sadly shakes his head. Jared gets a burger and chips for himself.

Their meal arrives as quickly as expected from the no-frills diner they’d picked out, and Jensen and Jared dive right in, garbling conversation around mouthfuls of food. In between bites of his burger, Jared peers up just in time to catch Jensen sneaking a few chips off his plate. The sight of it makes him laugh and swallow funny—he chokes a little, then coughs up a lung; all the while, Jensen simply smirks at him and hands over his cup of water, Jared’s own long empty.

Their shared lunch continues like this. It’s good. It’s comfortable, it’s fun, and Jared admits to himself, _Alright. This isn’t as bad as I thought it’d be_. After all, it’s difficult not to have a fantastic time when it’s just him and Jensen again—it’s almost like they’re back at Westborough, palling around on the fifth floor of the library as they inhabit the same elbow space and steal swigs from each other’s coffees. This is everything Jared’s _missed_ lately, played out in a casual lunch break between finals.

Unfortunately, good things come to a close—especially when it comes to Jensen. Quick as the food had been brought, the check follows suit. Though Jared digs into his pocket to grab his wallet, Jensen just arches an eyebrow and quips, “Don’t even try. You might be a rich brat and all, but I’m still your elder. Gotta take care’a you.” Jared pinks and tucks his wallet away.

While Jensen’s up at the register to settle the bill, Jared makes his way to the restroom for a leak, maybe check in the mirror to see if any lettuce had gotten stuck in his teeth or something. He didn’t want Jensen’s last memories of him to feature, like, tomato sauce or dirt smudges on his face.

Everything seems to be in place, though, so after a few more flicks of his hair to get it out of his eyes, Jared slides out the lock and slaps his hand on the knob. Just as he pulls it open, the door swings in and almost clocks him in the face.

“Whoa,” he yelps, dodging out of range as someone falls forward, and this time, Jared really _does_ get a hard knock across his chin. With a bitten off curse, Jared cradles his jaw and straightens up, ready to mutter something rude when he looks down, and— _oh._

Jensen stands close— _really_ close—with eyes bright and wide and gorgeously vulnerable. He’s rubbing at his forehead where it’d bumped against Jared’s face, but other than that slow repetition of movement, Jensen’s stock-still, like a portrait.

The change in the air is palpable. The easy camaraderie they’d built up that afternoon comes crashing down like a house of cards, and all that’s left is Jensen standing much too close for propriety’s sake, and Jared with his breath stuck in his throat.

He doesn’t get the chance to un-stick it, either—Jensen unexpectedly hauls him out of the bathroom and slams him up against the wall by the door, right there in the narrow hall between the kitchen and dining space where anyone walking by could just look over and see them. Jared wipes his palms down the sides of his jeans, eyes nervously darting around to land anywhere except on Jensen’s (really, really close) face, but the moment Jensen touches their lips together, all self-consciousness flies out his system because Jensen is—shite—he’s _kissing him._

And not even like the first time—there were questions in their first kiss, back at the studio in Vitton Hall; questions Jensen asked through the tentative brush of his mouth, questions Jared never got the chance to answer. That kiss had been improbable and insane and thrilling, but this one now—this one where Jensen pushes so hard against him Jared cuts himself on their teeth—there’s no _asking_ of anything, here. Just a message: _I want you._

 _I think I like this message,_ Jared drunkenly thinks as he kisses back, bearing down on the thigh that’s snuck in between his legs. This goes on for what could be seconds or minutes or days—Jensen doesn’t let up this time, either, just keeps moving _in, harder,_ plying Jared’s mouth open with an insistent tongue. And this time around, when Jared’s gone hard and horny as fuck, he doesn’t shy away from the fact—just shoves his hips into Jensen’s, deliberately pressing his full length against the soft span of belly there, where he _knows_ Jensen can feel exactly how worked up he’s getting

It doesn’t come as a surprise when Jensen finally wrenches away, pulling back with a loud, wet parting. It hurts like hell, of course, the realization that Jared’s been played again—for what must be the _third or fourth_ time now—except, something’s different this time. The lust hasn’t gone away from Jen’s green, dilated eyes. They’re still dark, full of intent, and the characteristic cooling off—it _doesn’t come._ No brick wall thrown up between them; Jensen doesn’t look away, or make excuses. No, this time…

Jensen moves forward, leaning his forearms in the space above Jared’s shoulders. Jared’s a little taller, so Jensen has to come in _close,_ sinking his weight onto his elbows. For a split second Jared thinks he’s gonna get kissed again—heart surging with hope—but Jensen just keeps going, until his head’s almost tucked into the crook of Jared’s neck.

Jensen breathes heavily, moist breath ghosting over the sensitive skin there. It feels _electric._ Jensen says— _purrs_ —“You got anyplace to be?”

Jared shivers. “No,” he replies, keenly aware of the way Jensen’s mouth hovers above his pulse, tickling the light hairs there with every gust of breath.

“Good.”

\-----

 

Jared runs a wide palm along the hem of Jensen’s t-shirt, pushing fabric away to sneak in underneath so he can count ridges there (three across the abs, four at his ribcage). Jensen’s body feels both silky and hard, and damn but it makes Jared _hot._

Jensen groans, tilting his head back to give up a wide swath of neck that’s just _ripe_ for the taking, so Jared does, eagerly—ducks his mouth down to lightly nip where Jen’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down, hands charting the land beneath Jensen’s soft, worn T-shirt. The deep arch of his lower back makes Jared inwardly hiss; the sharp out-curve (of Jensen’s _arse_ ) makes him want to do wicked, wicked things.

The fact that Jensen might actually let him—Jensen shoves Jared’s paws from out under his shirt, using the momentary freedom to yank the unwanted barricade up over his head, only to dump it unceremoniously onto the floor—the very fact Jensen _wants_ this is far headier than any physical gratification that might come from it.

“ _Fuck,_ Jay, quit thinking so loud and just—“ Jensen fumbles open the first few buttons of Jared’s shirt, but it’s such a hindrance that he quickly gives up on doing it the right way and just grabs the hem instead, tugging it upwards with such urgency that it takes Jared a beat to figure out what he’s trying to do. “Get this _off_ ,” Jensen finally growls, and Jared snaps into action, pulling the whole tangled mess over his head. When he reemerges, he’s met with Jensen’s heated green gaze, and relishes the way it sweeps over his body. He’s never felt so desirable, the way Jensen devours the view like Jared’s a feast laid out before him.

“Can I—“ Jared ventures. “Can I, um…” _Fuck,_ he’s so fucking nervous and _high_ from all this, his hands won’t stop shaking, even as they slide downwards to not-quite cup the swell of Jensen’s arse.

Jensen makes a pleased noise and kisses him, distracting Jared from any further doubt. And thank God for it—Jared eagerly pours his restless energy into it, conquering Jensen’s lightly chapped lips with renewed fervor.

His hands aren’t shaking anymore, not even as they slide up to seek out the border of Jensen’s boxers—and slide down, underneath the elastic waistband (Jensen bucking against him). All the while, the sexy, rough scrape of Jensen’s wantonly exposed neck calls out like a Siren’s song, just inches away from Jared’s searching mouth. He falls into it teeth first, finding no reason to resist.

“ _Fffuck,_ ” Jensen cries as Jared eagerly sucks on his throat. He makes a bruise here—moves a bit lower, makes another one there—Jared can hardly get a good suction going on any given spot before another one catches his interest. In fact, the whole of Jensen’s body is spread out before him like a vast, blank canvas just _begging_ to be colored in, Jared’s tongue as the paintbrush.

He tastes it before he even realizes where he is—against his tongue, Jensen’s skin gets a little bit salty, like sweat, but _sweet,_ too. There’s even the faint residue of body-warmed soap, from a morning shower. Jensen tastes clean and _virile._

Jared doesn’t even _realize_ ; not until his tongue scrapes across the transition of baby-soft skin to rough, coarse hair, and Jensen gasps loudly—“ _Fuck!_ ”

Jared pulls back a little, just enough to orient himself. _Oh, God_ damn, he thinks, falling back on his haunches as he takes in the sight before him.

Face-level with Jensen’s crotch, it’s kind of difficult to ignore the straining erection in front of him. Jen’s dick is visibly stuck down one pant leg, trying to point north but miserably constrained by denim, and Jared winces in sympathy. _Gotta help a guy out,_ he reasons, reaching for the button on Jensen’s pants.

He makes quick work of it, shoves the rough fabric down, and before long it’s just Jensen, his dick, and a pair of cotton boxer shorts that do _nothing_ to hide much of anything. Not that Jen’s got anything he needs to hide. Even with shorts on, it’s pretty obvious he’s got a good thing going there—decent girth, something you could really get your hand around, and nice and long, too. Jared feels his mouth water—literally, his mouth _waters_.

“If you’re gonna keep gawking, let me know so I can get started without you,” Jensen says from above, hand sneaking down to reach for himself. His face is tomato red, though, palm doing more to cover up his erection than any actual groping, and Jared thinks to himself— _God, was Jensen always this_ adorable _?_

It becomes moot point though, because the moment Jared swats the hand away, reaching into the opening of Jensen’s boxers to fish out his cock, the sound that filters into his ears goes from adorable to _filthy hot_ in about two seconds, flat. And the sound Jensen makes next, after Jared’s leaned forward and wrapped his lips around Jen’s cock…it makes _Jared’s_ face turn red.

“Oh God,” Jensen gasps, hands thumping against the wall behind his back, scrabbling for something to hold onto as his knees give out. “God.”

It doesn’t taste weird, or anything. It’s the first time Jared’s given head (or done much of anything, really), but it just tastes like skin, and maybe something a little musky in the back of his throat, where the tip of Jensen’s dick nudges in.

“God,” Jensen repeats, breathless, and the needy sound of it makes everything so much better, all of a sudden. Blowjobs? No problem. Jared can do this—especially if Jen’s gonna keep writhing like that, making his dick pump in and out of Jared’s mouth in short, convulsive bursts like he just can’t help himself. Yeah, Jared can _rock_ this.

He takes a deep breath (through his nose, of course)—and sinks in. Doesn’t even know what to do, just knows from hearsay that girls can get it down all the way in, like, _all the way,_ and Jared’s not about to be shown up by some _bird,_ so he just…goes for it. Forces himself on Jensen’s cock, trying to take it as deep as he possibly can. It doesn’t work like he expects, though—hits a wall when the head of Jen’s dick butts against the pit of Jared’s throat, and there’s only half or maybe two-thirds of the hard length in his mouth, and it’s not going any further. Jared chokes wetly on the first thrust, embarrassed when an obscene sound squelches out. His heart sinks when Jensen jerks his hips back, pulling his whole dick out with another loud, mortifying slurp. God, Jared’s drooling _everywhere._

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to look nonchalant like he hadn’t just been trying (and failing) to deep-throat Jensen. He’s about to stand back up and apologize or something, when Jensen looks down at him, eyes positively smoldering.

“Fuck, Jared,” he pants, throat raspy like he’d been the one trying work a solid object into his esophagus. Turned on to all hell, Jared surreptitiously tries to catch his breath, while Jensen visibly does the same, chest heaving before he continues, “Ease up, I’m gonna come in, like, less than a minute if you keep that up.”

Even if Jensen’s lying, or just trying to be nice or whatever, the encouragement makes Jared feel like a fucking champ. So he appraises Jensen’s crotch, where his prick juts out from the folds of his cotton boxers. It’s still a little shiny with Jared’s drying spit. He thinks, _I can do this._

The thing is, Jared _wants_ to make Jensen come. As soon as possible, really, because he can’t _wait_ to see it, hear it ( _taste_ it). So Jared smirks up at him and says, “Then come. You can save the stamina for round two.” Before Jensen can get a word in edgewise—though an undignified squeak manages to make it through—Jared gets back on the proverbial horse. He pulls Jensen into his mouth again with the tip of his tongue, then shoves down with grasping lips like he’s trying to get the runaway drips off an ice-lolly. And yeah, it’s kind of uncomfortable, but it doesn’t matter—Jared wants to make this _good_ for Jensen because, really, how embarrassing would it be if Jared was a horrible lay?

Luckily, Jared finds the right timing to this whole dick-sucking business; instead of getting cock-blocked by his gag reflex, he swallows just as Jensen’s thrusting in, and it’s like the turn of a key—Jensen keeps going, going, and slides on home. His dick just _sinks_ in, making its way past those last crucial inches until Jared finds himself with his nose pressed against coarse hairs, spittle trickling out from the corners of his mouth. Jensen grunts, pushing in that much tighter as Jared’s head moves backwards with the movement, and between the friction Jared can feel his own drool smearing back against his chin where it’d dripped down the underside of Jen’s balls.

Jensen falls apart above him. He keeps repeating _Fuck, Jared. God. God, you’re—fuck,_ with various permutations of those three, delicious words. Mindlessly chants them like they’re the only things he ever learned, ever knew how to say. It’s scorching _hot_ to hear his name uttered like that, like it’d been dragged over a bed of nails and flayed with a whip before being pushed out of Jensen’s bitten, full mouth.

Even better, the words only grow in volume the longer Jensen rocks against Jared’s face. He wasn’t lying when he said he wouldn’t last long—just as Jared’s starting to get the hang of it, figuring out how to relax his throat so Jensen can fuck into it without having to worry about strangulation—

“— _fuck, Jared,_ ” he keens. Jared just hums along, paying no mind because it’s all Jen’s been saying for the past few minutes. But suddenly, Jensen blurts—“ _I’m gonna—_ “ 

Well, _that’s_ new. 

Jared quickly gives the dick in his mouth one long, hard _suck_ as he pulls off, only to get an eyeful of Jensen’s come on the way out. He automatically throws a hand on Jen’s dick—either to push him back or to milk him through orgasm, maybe both—but all it does is make Jensen swear even louder as the rest of his come hits Jared in the face in hot, gooey splatters.

The shock of it must be written all over his face, because after one long, stretched out moment, Jensen breaks the silence with a snort. Which turns into a chuckle, turns into a laugh, until Jared can’t help but smile himself, even as he winces in trying to keep Jensen’s runoff out of his left eye. Jesus, but Jensen’s laughs are infectious.

“Ha ha, very funny,” Jared remarks, hunting around the ground for Jensen’s discarded shirt. The come is getting tacky on his face though, which is kind of foul, so he quickly wipes it off. “Eurgh, this stuff doesn’t come _off,_ ” he complains, pulling at a clump in his hair that’s glued together.

“Let me get that,” Jensen replies, tucking his softening dick back in as he kicks off his still-tangled jeans.

Jensen is a sneaky, sneaky man, however. When he gets to Jared’s side, over by the sofa (because they’d only made as far as the living room before getting down to business), he’s knocked backwards and blinking up at the ceiling, getting manhandled out of his remaining clothes before he can even figure out what’s going on.

Oh, he figures it out pretty quick, though. Naked, shivering (from _heat_ ), and getting carpet burn on his ass, Jared gets a the best blowjob he’s ever experienced—and while he hasn’t got a book full of conquests or anything, he still somehow knows it can’t possibly get any better than this. After all, this is…it’s _Jensen_ , the postgrad transfer student Jared’s been unknowingly lusting after for the entirety of the term. Sexy and guarded and brilliant, Jensen is suddenly _here_ , working Jared’s cock over with just the teasing, fluttering suction of his talented mouth.

Jensen gives as good as he got, though, and then some. Jared would almost be jealous, thinking of all the practice Jen must’ve had to be this fucking _amazing_ …only, he’s getting his fucking _dick_ sucked, so there’s not a whole lot going on in his head other than the fact that Jensen is _really, really good at this._

Jared comes even before Jensen works his way up a fast tempo. Jesus, he came from _foreplay_. It’d almost be embarrassing; that is, if he and Jensen weren’t competing neck-in-neck for Quickest Orgasm of the Year.

The thought of it makes Jared smile. Wanting to share the afterglow, Jared pulls Jensen up by the back of his neck with a gentle hand and he comes willingly—so uncharacteristically _willing,_ it makes Jared’s chest ache.

“Hey,” Jared says, whisper soft.

“Hey yourself.” Jensen swings his body over Jared’s, lying right on top like a heavy, muscle-and-bone blanket. He ducks down, kisses Jared’s cheekbone as Jared’s eyelids fall shut.

Jensen makes a content noise, low in his throat, and it’s a _beautiful_ sound.

Of course, the gods take it upon themselves to butt into Jared’s business, once again. The ringtone of a mobile suddenly erupts into noise, right next to Jared’s ear where his jeans lay in a heap, the boys giving a violent start at the interruption.

“Bugger—“ Jared gets up on his elbows, reaches over to struggle with the vibrating phone that’s ensnared in the loose pocket of his jeans. He’s just going to turn it off, but Jensen rolls away and gives him space. A lot of space.

Jared quickly pins him in place with a look of warning, making sure Jensen won’t skitter away (he’s got nowhere to go, anyway, as they’re already in his flat). And while Jen looks fidgety, it will have to do for now; Jared takes a moment to check the caller ID on his phone. 

_What’s Kendrick calling me for?_ he wonders. Curiosity beats out annoyance, and Jared answers the call.

\-----

 

When Jared’s cell phone goes off, something hits Jensen _hard,_ like a sledgehammer’s been taken to his gut.

The enormity of what they’ve done—Jesus, Jared is…this _kid_ is buck-naked in his apartment, having just gotten sucked off by a guy half a decade older than him, and it’s not even like that’s a big deal except that it’s _Jared,_ and that phone call is probably his long-term celebrity girlfriend, or fiancée, or whatever—it’s probably Sandy on the phone. Checking up to see where her boy’s at.

_Jesus._

Jensen scrambles off, mortified at the turn of events. He backs away enough to start looking for his clothes, maybe go back to his room for a fresh set, but Jared’s feral eyes lock him in place. Torn, yet helpless but to freeze in place, Jensen watches morosely as Jared’s attention goes back to the phone call.

Jensen shifts his weight, unable to do anything except succumb to his own racing thoughts.

This afternoon—it was just supposed to be lunch. Two guys, hanging out between finals; one last time to put some closure on the open wound of their relationship that’s been stinging all semester long. But Jensen has to go and fuck it up by molesting the kid outside the men’s room, before _taking him home_ so they can what, fool around? Like _that’s_ going to help matters any, especially after Jensen’s gone back to California and the only thing he _can_ do is get over all this.

He sneaks a glance at Jared, whose back is turned. His shoulders are tense, up around his ears in a stiff line. Jensen doesn’t need to take a wild guess to figure out who it is on the other end of the conversation.

 _Who are you kidding,_ Jensen says himself. _What did you expect?_ What possible outcomes could there be from him and Jared fucking around? 

Without Jared’s eyes on him to keep him immobile, Jensen breaks out of form and strides over to his jeans, where they lay next to the wall. Grabs them off the floor and yanks one leg up—

The loud clap of a clamshell phone jolts him around, and he faces Jared (who’s still _naked_ ), feeling slightly guilty.

“Hey,” Jared says, and it sounds nothing like the way he’d said it two minutes earlier. It’s cautious this time, like he doesn’t want to scare Jensen away. “I have to go. I completely forgot about my criminology final.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jensen replies, shrugging the other pant leg on. Jared watches him unhappily, like he’d wanted some other reaction. Well, too bad, because while Jensen might be a horny bastard and a cradle-robber, he is _not_ a home wrecker, so Jensen is staying far, far away from Jared. Right.

Jensen pointedly adds, “Lunch was good.”

Jared does nothing though, just keeps staring as Jensen does up his fly. Fuck, those slanted, feral eyes can get _unnerving_ —Jensen turns around and scoops his shirt up off the floor. Only, it’s got his come on it still so he can’t really put on it. 

Jensen mumbles, “I’m just gonna…” He waves offhandedly at the door to his bedroom, and wills Jared to stop boring holes into his skin with his narrowed gaze.

What Jared does next isn’t much better, though. As Jensen carves a straight trajectory to his room, it’s quickly aborted by a yank on his bicep. Jared uses the momentum to pull Jensen around.

“Jensen,” he repeats, and the undercurrent of pleading acts like a hook that snags on Jensen’s gaze. It’s a bad idea though, because Jared doesn’t hide how he feels (at least, not very well), and the displeasure that tightens the corners of his mouth makes Jensen feel like a complete bastard.

“Jen, talk to me.”

Dangerous words. Spilling his guts to Jared is the last thing he wants to do—he’s vulnerable, off-guard, and so turned around that there’s nothing _to_ talk about, other than this: “Jared, I’m sorry,” he says, cringing at the shadow that falls across Jared’s face. He can’t stop now though, so continues, “This…we shouldn’t have done this. There’s Sandy to think about—“

“Sandy?” Jared asks, confusion clouding his expression. Jesus, as if he doesn’t _know_ —“What’s Sandy got to do with it?”

What does she _not_ have to do with the fact that her boyfriend just got off on sucking another guy’s dick? Jensen opens his mouth, all geared up to argue on Sandy’s behalf, because _someone’s_ got to do it, but Jared just urgently references his cell phone and cuts him off—“I really have to go. I’m already late.” Jensen heaves a sigh of relief; at least until the grip on his arm tightens. Jared glowers, “We’re not done here, Jen. Not by a long shot.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. So Jensen just swallows hard—grabs his resolve by the nuts and squeezes out the right thing to do; he shakes his head. It’s rueful, but unmistakable in its silent refusal of whatever it is that Jared still wants.

Jared twitches forward, frustration coloring his movements. Quick as it comes, though, Jared backs right off and turns all the way around. Pauses for one taut moment, before setting about to collect his clothes.

In the time it takes for Jensen’s heart to slow back down to a normal pace, Jared is long gone.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s been a week since Jared last saw Jensen.

The graduation ceremony is taking place on campus this afternoon, and seeing as how it may quite possibly be Jared’s final chance to see Jensen, he doesn’t fancy it the best occasion to be nearly two hours late.

Jared bursts through double doors, panting hard as he scans the room frantically—the auditorium is cluttered with folding chairs jostled helter-skelter and abandoned programs litter the floor but otherwise, the room’s devoid of life.

 _Fuck!_ Jared curses inwardly. He morosely runs his eyes over the ghost town before him as he catches his breath, carding a hand through sweat-damp hair before he resignedly makes his way towards the nearest chair. _Bloody photo shoots always go overtime_. A loud screech of metal on linoleum resounds when Jared flops into the chair.

Far up on stage, a man straightens up from behind the podium. “Can I help you?” he calls out.

Quickly recovering from his surprise, Jared bounds out of his chair and strides forward. “Yeah, I just missed the ceremony. Where’d everybody go?” he asks.

The man points to the exit behind him with a mic-wielding hand. “Reception’s out back,” he says.

Jared’s halfway out the door before he can finish saying “thanks.”

\-----

There’s an itch on Jensen’s leg. He scratches it, digging blunt fingernails through polyester robe, through the fabric of his jeans, but the spot just tickles that much more. He gives up, exasperated, and turns his attention back to the podium.

Jensen counts eight more graduates before it’s his turn to walk. Jared still hasn’t shown.

 _Damn it, Jay_. He said he’d come—had sworn it, just last week during their lunch together. Jared had been all bright smiles and heartfelt enthusiasm about attending Jensen’s graduation ceremony, and so he’d thought—he’d _stupidly_ assumed that everything that happened after their lunch, back at Jensen’s apartment…he’d hoped it wouldn’t change Jared’s intentions of coming.

But, well. So much for that.

“Jensen Ackles,” the announcer reads aloud and Jensen snaps out of his reverie, stands up to the whoops and catcalls of his fellow classmates and saunters up as he takes the diploma with a big smile. A girl in the audience yells out “ _I love you!”_ , the crowd letting loose a collective chuckle as Jensen feels his neck and ears warm. Still, he uses the time and vantage point to scan the rows of people for one last, cursory search.

No Jared.

Jensen steps down and returns to his seat.

By the time the last name’s been called, Jensen’s given up on seeing Jared at all, for the rest of the day. Maybe, possibly _ever_. Jensen stuffs his disappointment down, suffering through the end of the ceremony. Afterwards, he files out the back doors alongside his studiomates.

 _Get over it, dammit,_ Jensen tells himself. It’s just a _guy,_ for God’s sake; plenty more where that came from.

Jensen squares his shoulders with spackled-in resolve and steps out into the light.

Outside, the weather’s good; spring is in the air and the sun grows in confidence by day. In the courtyard there’s a smattering of cherrywoods that sprinkle white petals like snow, catching in drifts along the edge of the lawn.

Mike appears at Jensen’s side and hands him a plastic glass of champagne. “All they’ve got is the bubbly shite,” Mike apologizes. “But hey, booze is booze.”

Jensen shrugs agreeably and they butt their plastic cups together.

“To getting more than three hours of sleep a night,” Jensen offers.

“To never laying eyes on Brian’s ass crack in studio anymore!” Mike adds. The commiserate with exaggerated shudders before downing their drinks. The fizz travels up Jensen’s sinuses in a huge rush and he sneezes.

“Bless you,” a female voice sounds.

Jensen’s rubbing the tickle in his nose away when he looks up to find Sandra McCoy standing in front of him. His eyes slide behind her.

“He’s not here,” Sandy says.

“I wasn’t—“ Jensen replies automatically, but she simply raises a manicured eyebrow and Jensen shuts up.

Sandy flicks her eyes over to Mike, who straightens up visibly. “I’m sorry, can I borrow Jensen for a moment?” she asks.

“Yeah, sure, of course,” Mike replies, flustered. When Jensen snickers it earns him a venomous glare before Mike leaves to join their old classmates.

Sandy places a hand on Jensen’s elbow and guides him over to the corner of the courtyard, under the shade of a softly snowing tree. Jensen automatically throws his back against the cool bark, arms crossed over his chest.

Sandy hesitates, and this makes Jensen nervous. He bites at the quick of his thumbnail.

“It’s about Jared,” she begins. God, it makes her sick to do this, but she knows she _must_. “I need to know how you feel about him.”

“What?” Jensen asks, shifting his weight and crossing his ankles.

Sandy toys with the ends of her hair, fretting. Ever since Jared found out Jensen was graduating, he’d been nothing but sullen and moody, and it’s so out of character that even his blithe friends had begun to notice. By this point, at wit’s end, Sandy will do almost _anything_ to get Jared back— including confronting the source of the problem.

She hastily demands, “You heard me. Do you fancy him, or are you just in for a quick shag? Are you playing him?”

Jensen’s eyes widen at her words. _What— how?_ “What’s Jared been saying?”

“—Because if you’re just playing him,” Sandy continues, her voice breaking a bit at the end. She clears her throat. “I can’t forgive you if you are.”

Jensen watches in alarm as Sandy slumps in on herself, dark hair obscuring her face. Unsettled, Jensen repeats, “What did he say to you?”

“He didn’t have to say anything. I’ve been his best friend for years, he reads like a book. It isn’t rocket science to know…” Sandy takes a breath, ignores the queasiness in her stomach. “That he’s completely in love with you.”

Jensen blinks slowly and tightens his arms. He says, “What about you and… I thought you guys were dating.”

Sandy gives him a look like she’s observing a particularly slow child, but it’s disguised with such politeness that it only makes Jensen feel ten times worse. Luckily, comprehension soon dawns across her face and she responds, “Oh, you mean the rumours? I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong idea. We simply never bothered to correct the papers or anything—it was easier to let people believe what they wanted.”

Her words sound casual, but there’s a hint of sadness lingering around the edges of Sandy’s smile. Before Jensen can mull over it, however, she quickly crosses her arms over her chest, and goes on the offense, prompting him— ”So, are you serious about Jared or not?”

 _Well… shit,_ Jensen thinks as the information slowly sinks in. As he lets himself believe Sandy’s dismissal of any romantic ties with Jared, a burgeoning warmth spreads from his chest and outwards. A smile emerges, unstoppable. “I…” Jensen starts as he steps forward. He rests a hand on Sandy’ bicep to ease her standoffish stance, placating, then throws a cursory look around before he quietly tells her.

He tells her, tells Sandy that her best friend Jay drives him crazy; funny farm, need-to-be-committed _crazy_ , but it’s the hushed reverence and ill-contained excitement coloring his voice that tells Sandy all she needs, tells her more than she really wants to know.

Jensen keeps talking, lips close to her ear lest others overhear. But Sandy isn’t listening anymore, not really.

 _There, done_ , she thinks to herself. Although Sandy knows she’s giving up on the one thing she’s wanted her entire life, she finally feels at peace again. If telling Jensen what he needs to hear will chase the husk of Jared away and bring back the bravado of her best friend’s laugh, it’ll be worth it.

Sandy puts a hand on Jensen’s chest to push him away as suddenly, somebody cuts in and shoves Jensen up against the cherrywood trunk.

Jensen utters a noise before it gets muffled, his words choked in his throat.

Sandy takes a step backwards, watching in disbelief as her gentle, easygoing Jared pins Jensen to the tree, fists balled in his shirt and jaw clenching, their faces close, too close— 

\-----

 

When Jared leaves the empty, echoing auditorium to go outside, he’s immediately embraced by the stark contrast of life and laughter, by the celebratory noises coming from the throng of folks in the little courtyard. Shaking the dissonance off, he makes his way into the crowd in search of Jensen. The courtyard is not that big; he shouldn’t have any trouble.

However, after mingling for several minutes and making small talk with a few casual friends, he’s starting to wonder if Jensen’s there at all.

 _What the hell?_ he thinks, making another surreptitious loop through the crowd. He suddenly spies a shocking green beanie and recognizes the face of Jensen’s friend, who he’s seen a few times before. He walks over.

“Hey, excuse me. Do you know where Jensen is?” Jared asks the familiar face as the small group of graduates around him pause and stare.

“Oh, hi,” the guy responds. “That’s funny, he’s with Sandra McCoy. You know, your, uh…”

 _What the hell’s he doing with Sandy?_ Jared wonders. He hadn’t been under the impression that the two were friends. Only… _wait_. The other day, when they’d—when he and Jensen had… _done_ stuff …hadn’t he mentioned something about Sandy just as they were breaking apart?

Unease sits down on Jared’s shoulders, making itself at home. Jared frowns and asks, “You know where they went?”

“I left ‘em back there,” Jensen’s friend vaguely gestures towards the perimeter of the lawn and Jared thanks him politely.

Once he knows what he’s looking for, it isn’t hard to spot Sandy with her unmistakable figure, tiny and petite in the sea of blue-garbed graduates and older parents. But just as he’s about to call her name, the unease on his shoulders drops down to his gut like a stone.

Well, no wonder he couldn’t find the guy. Tall as he is, Jensen’s obscured by Sandy as he slouches low against the trunk of a cherrywood. Little white petals dot his dark hair, and if this were any other time, Jared would go over and make fun of him for it. Not now, though.

Jensen leans forward and touches Sandy on the arm. He moves in close, mouth hovering over her ear and that’s when Jared catches a glimpse of Jensen’s face… eyes bright and a heat-soaked smile like daybreak, even from this distance.

Jensen hasn’t smiled at Jared like that for _months_. Not since the very beginning, when they’d hardly known each others names yet—and sure, Jared’s been recipient to some amazing smiles since. He’s gotten the lustful ones, the amused ones, and all these other ones like a damned assortment pack of expressions, but the one he’s giving away to Sandy? It’s _unguarded,_ and it hurts to watch when it’s not Jared on the receiving end.

Sandy bows her head, beautiful hair spilling over Jensen’s bicep as he lifts a sure hand and places it on her bare arm, leaning ever closer as he whispers into her ear. Sandy tips in, palm delicate on his chest.

 _What the fuck?_ he thinks, when just like that—the puzzle pieces snap together. A fierce possessiveness launches out of left field and crunches into Jared’s chest, and before he can stop to think twice, he’s stormed over and bunched up fistfuls of Jensen’s robe, crinkling polyester into permanent creases as he shoves him up against the tree.

Jensen’s eyes are startling green, his mouth agape with shock. Beneath his fists, Jared feels a sharp inhalation.

“Ja—“

Jared doesn’t want to hear it, so he shuts Jensen up with a hard kiss. Pushes insistently at Jensen’s body until there’s no space and no air, just _tight pressure, muscle against muscle, bone against bone_ — but under his mouth, Jensen doesn’t move.

 _Shit_ , Jared’s mind catches up as he launches himself backwards. Jensen instantly grabs a handful of Jared’s shirtfront and he flinches, anticipating the blow, but when nothing follows he disentangles himself from Jensen’s grasp and jerks away.

He’d look up to meet Jensen’s gaze but he won’t, he _can’t—_

And so, he flees.

\-----

 

Back at his flat, Jared is moping. He’s watching a classic horror marathon on the telly—currently the Blob is in the midst of ingesting everything in sight, as is Jared. Brandishing a spoon, Jared digs into the pint of Cherry Garcia that’s sitting, cold, in his lap. 

Sandy has been calling him for hours, leaving plaintive messages riddled with pleas for him to call her back, but fuck that. _Behind my fucking back,_ he seethes. God dammit, she knew Jared had a thing for Jensen, _must_ have known. Doesn’t matter that he never said anything aloud; looking back on it, Jared had never been what one could call _subtle_ about his enthusiasm for Jensen, and Sandy of all people should’ve been able to piece things together.

He growls and digs out a frozen cherry with his spoon, popping it into his mouth. Maybe he should’ve claimed Jensen better, black permanent marker on smooth forehead. _Property of Jared Tristan Padalecki._

Onscreen, the Blob predatorily eyes a bus when just behind Jared, the loud buzz of the doorbell sounds.

Jared ignores it and sucks vanilla off his spoon. But then comes the pounding—insistent thumps on wood that shake the walls and shove annoyance down Jared’s throat until he has no choice but to concede. When the film cuts to a commercial break, he curses and gets up, storming towards the door.

He yanks it open, hinges quivering from the force.

“Goddammit Sandy, just—“

Jensen’s fist is poised mid-knock. Jared freezes.

“How did you…?” Jared asks, brow furrowed in confusion. As Jensen lets his hand fall, Jared leans against the doorframe, effectively blocking the entryway. “What are you doing here?”

“Sandy sent me. She’s worried…” Jensen trails off as Jared’s eyes darken perceptibly. “What’s going on with you?”

 _What’s going on?_ Jared nearly laughs aloud at that, as images of Jensen and Sandy—laughing and smiling and conspiring together—storm his consciousness.

In the silence, Jensen carefully steps closer but Jared stands his ground. Jensen’s so close, his head’s tipped up just to meet Jared’s gaze.

“Jay,” Jensen says, almost warningly. It sounds like a dare, and Jared was never one to back down.

“Fine. You want to know what’s going on? Well let me enlighten you,” he starts bitterly as Jensen’s eyes widen. Jared continues, “There’s this guy who’s been hitting on me all term, but he’s a bloody arse about it and I never know what the hell he’s thinking, not even after he’s gotten into my pants—during which, for the record, he ditched me while I was still in his flat, bare-arsed _naked_. He changes his mind about what he wants at the drop of a hat and lately, his preference isn’t me but my _best friend_ —“ Jensen splutters but Jared barrels on— “What’s going on is I’m kind of fucked. Kind of _really_ fucked because I still want the guy. I still fucking _want him_ , but he’s graduated, he’ll be _gone_ and I’ll never see him again, but still— even now— all I really want to do is just...”

Jared falters, emotions breaking across his face. Jensen just gawps at him, breathing heavily through his mouth, and God, Jared’s so turned around that even _that_ makes his fingers itch, wanting to reach out, maybe…

…God, he is _not_ going down that path, not this time. Instead, Jared channels that tension into other uses—he bites, “What are you doing here anyway? I figured you’d be halfway to California by now.”

“Jared—“

“That or, I don’t know, spending your last moments with _Sandy_ , since you two seem to hit it off better than we ever did.”

Jensen grunts and has the audacity to look impatient, opening his mouth to perhaps _explain himself,_ to delineate the merits of a Sandy and Jensen union and fuck if that doesn’t make Jared all the angrier. He bends closer, vulnerability eclipsed by fury-colored words. “Don’t even say it Jensen, I don’t need to hear it. Tell Sandy I hope she’s happy. I hope you’re both happy—“

“Jared, shut the fuck up,” Jensen says quietly, hands reaching up to tangle in Jared’s overgrown hair and yanking the taller man down. Their mouths suddenly share the same breaths, mere millimeters apart, and if Jared keeps talking his words will get lost between Jensen’s full, parted lips. Jared shuts his mouth and swallows hard.

“You’re an idiot,” Jensen whispers, then licks at the hard line of Jared’s lips.

Jared murmurs back a decidedly witty, cutting remark, but it gets absorbed in the space between Jensen’s teeth. He feels Jensen smile against his mouth, quick slide of teeth against his own lips but hell Jared isn’t something to _laugh at_ , so he does what any guy with a pair would do— roughs up Jensen’s shirt with clenched fists, and drags the man into his loft.

This time around, Jared’s not thinking about much at all. Just lets go, lets himself _want_ and _hav_ e, as he forces his tongue in deeper, bearing down until the door’s slammed shut behind them and his weight’s on top, bearing down until he’s _winning._ Between Jared and the front door, Jensen (and his mouthneck _arse_ ) is _his_.

“God, _Jay—_ ” Jensen pants, hips rolling involuntarily beneath Jared’s.

“Yeah,” Jared agrees, biting against Jensen’s throat.

“Hold on. I gotta—I gotta ask— “

“Can we _please_ not talk about Sandy right now?” Jared whuffs air through his nose, deeply frustrated. “God damn it, Jen, if you’re here to ask for my blessing or something, I think you already know my answer to that,” he grumps, pausing from his sampling of Jensen’s jaw just long enough to gesture down at his crotch, where his arousal tents the front of his jogging shorts. Except Jensen—the strange, unfathomable creature that he is—he doesn’t look disappointed at all. Far from, in fact; he just lights up like the summer sky and beams with the sunniest, most artless grin Jared’s ever seen on _anyone’s_ face.

Jensen chuckles a little, before grabbing Jared by the back of the neck to jerk him down down. When they’re eyes are level, Jensen says, filthily, “All I wanted to ask was where your bed is at.”

Unable to come up with anything more articulate than a slow, dumbstruck smile that mirrors the one on Jensen’s face, Jared just says, “Oh.”

Jensen starts unbuttoning his own shirt, looking pointedly at Jared. “It’s, uh—“ Jared stutters, cocking his head towards the door to his room just as Jensen peels off his button-down, standing before Jared in only a thin, white undershirt and jeans.

 _Sod it_ , Jared thinks. He latches onto Jensen’s belt with two sure hands and pulls him into his bedroom, slamming the door behind them.

There’s a lot more that could be said for what goes on behind it, but what they share—Jensen, open and endless as a blue, cloudless day, and Jared breathless with it—it’s for them, and them only. 

And when it’s over—for the time being, at least—Jared thinks to himself, _Finally_. Ghosts his fingers over Jensen’s sleeping face and kisses him on his eyelids. The best part is? When Jensen wakes, he just pulls Jared back down to his pillow and murmurs against the crook of Jared’s neck, burrowing under covers like he wants to stay there all day and all night—like he wants to stay for as long as Jared will let him.

If that’s the case—Jared eases down, makes himself comfortable around the warm curl of Jensen’s body—Jared figures they’re going to be there for a very, very long time. 

 

_fin._


End file.
